


Not Forsaken

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After NFA, what happens when rumors start circulating about a possible surviving vampire? Buffy has a number of surprises coming her way, and almost none of them are pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ask anybody in Rome, and they'd all agree: Ilona Costa Bianchi was not the kind of woman that men crossed without consequences. Her beautiful, fashionably attired exterior and engaging, gregarious manner blinded many casual observers to the steel and ice that lay beneath, but her employees knew the truth. She suffered neither fools, setbacks, or petty annoyances lightly. And one of the things that annoyed her most, aside from poorly tailored suits, was being kept from her Wednesday appointment. The nervous underling currently before her was guilty on both counts.

He watched her flip idly through the folder she held, swallowing hard at the look in her eyes when she closed it and glanced up at him. “I... uh... that is, the department... I-I mean Mr Sandusky thought -”

She cut him off with an upraised hand. “This news, it is most unsettling, and I will deal with it. You are to say nothing, understand?” He was nodding frantically before she finished. “Now, then - if you have nothing further, I am late for my _cosina brocere._ ”

Ilona watched the boy practically fall over his feet in his hurry to get away. An amusing young pup, although one in decided need of a few fashion lessons if he intended to go much further up the corporate ladder. She turned to lay the folder on her desk, then grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “No further interruptions,” she instructed Dominique, breezing past the secretary without waiting for an acknowledgment Her instructions were always followed, particularly with regard to her Wednesday afternoons.

Her car and driver were waiting, just as they always were, and no directions were needed to tell Julian where they were going. He'd been with her for seven years now, and could probably find his way blindfolded to just about any destination in Rome. And since her Wednesday appointment meant that he had the afternoon off, he was almost as eager as she to get underway.

Like many of Wolfram & Hart's CEOs, Ilona spent most of her evenings in the luxurious penthouse suite above the office, but she was unique in that she also maintained a separate apartment, where most of her personal items were stored. Her mother's Rococo clock and grandfather's collection of antique daggers were there, as were the pictures and paintings of her family. She was from an a distinguished line of powerful people that had settled in Rome during the Renaissance and begun their service to Wolfram & Hart shortly thereafter. Her lover liked to tease her about her piazza and the shiny new opulence that mingled with more old-world elegance, but Ilona adored it. Besides, it came in quite handy for her little Wednesday breaks, since her lover refused to set foot in the buildings of Wolfram & Hart. And hotels were such a tacky American thing for something like this.

The car pulled up to the curb and Julian hurried around to open her door. Ilona turned her cell phone off and left it, along with her purse, sitting on the floor of the car. “Six o'clock,” she reminded Julian. Not that she needed to after following the same routine almost every Wednesday for nearly four years, but there was a routine they'd fallen into, and mentioning the pick-up time was part of it. Julian nodded and touched his hat, watching respectfully as she headed into the building, her steps quickening as she disappeared behind the door.

She checked her wristwatch while she waited for the elevator, frowning as she saw that the incompetent cub at her office had made her almost fifteen minutes late. While she couldn't deny the importance and value of the information he'd provided, she could wish that he'd been just a little earlier in bringing it to her. She mulled over the new details, thinking about the next step on the ride up to the tenth floor, but when she stepped off to see her lover leaning against the wall by her door, she put it all aside.

“You're late,” he complained.

“Something came up,” she responded. “And I knew you'd wait.”

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her close, one arm sliding around her waist. “Did you, now? Maybe I should remind you of why I usually don't have to.”

The light brush of his lips on her throat made her sigh as a shiver slid down her spine. “Perhaps you'll need to spend the afternoon making sure I don't forget, no? After all, I'm not the fastest of learners.”

His chuckle vibrated against her skin. “Can't quite get away with that act with me, Ilona. But I'm more than willing to put in the time you think you need. I've got my own reputation to uphold, have to make sure you're fully satisfied.”

“Since when has the great Immortal failed to leave his lovers any other way besides limp and thoroughly debauched?” she purred, twining fingers through his hair, pressing him tighter against her neck.

He nipped her skin gently, then pushed her back. “Never, of course. And you're certainly not going to be the first!” With a laugh, Methos swatted her ass, took the keys from her fingers and opened the door, then picked her up and carried her inside, kicking it closed behind him.

Several very pleasurable hours later, Ilona was lying curled up against her lover's side in the wreck they'd made of the sheets. They were taking a break for the moment, although she knew they would end up coupling at least twice more before she left to go back to the office. She nuzzled his chest, smiling when he groaned softly and reached up to stroke her hair. “So what was it that kept me waiting?”

“There was a problem in Los Angeles,” she told him. “The Black Thorn... they were attacked.”

“The Black Thorn?” His hand paused for a moment, and she nudged it with her head to start the soothing motion again. “Who'd be stupid enough to try and take them out?”

“Who else? The great vampire hero.” She laughed. “Perhaps he was misled as to the power they hold, or maybe he was looking to commit suicide without actually falling on his own stake. Either way, there was only one end to the fight. A shame that his friends all followed him, though. Particularly the other vampire.” Ilona sighed, wishing the blond vampire hadn't been quite so eager to leave Rome. He'd been one she wouldn't have minded getting to know a little - or a lot - better.

“Other vampire? I thought he just had a couple of humans working with him.” Methos didn't stop petting her, but she could hear a note of tension enter his voice.

“Afraid of more competition for your new _ragazza's_ heart?” she teased lightly. A scowl was her only answer, so she smiled and patted him lightly. “You really should offer her your bed again. Perhaps now she has ceased to mourn, she will be more open to exploring that which you can give her, no?”

He shook his head. “She's still mourning, probably will for the rest of her life. I've tried to talk to her, get her to see that this incredible, wonderful man she remembers would've wanted her to move on, but she won't hear of it.”

“She might've considered it if she'd seen these. The vampires, they generally are not the ones I would choose, but with her... but they are gone now. Such a pity, too. Angelus was too serious for me, but Spike seemed like -”

“Spike?!” He sat up suddenly, both hands grabbing her arms as he held her out and looked into her eyes. “What did you say about Spike?”

She stared at him, shocked by the strange interest he seemed to be showing in the blond vampire. “You knew these vampires, then?

“We've run across each other on a few occasions. There was this one time, back in 1913...” A brief smile played over his lips before he shook his head, as though pulling himself away from the memory. “Never mind. How did you hear about Spike?”

“He was quite charming. A little upset about his coat, what with the bomb destroying it, but that was fixed easily enough. You really didn't have to trick them like that, you know - they weren't used to -”

“Ilona!” Methos gave her a little shake, his hands tightening as he struggled to keep his temper under control. “You're not making any sense.”

“A few months ago, when you were playing your little game with Angelus over the -”

“Capo's head, yeah. But what does that have to do with Spike?”

She gave him a curious look, then said slowly, as though speaking to a child, “He came to Rome with Angelus, to get the head.”

The brunet frowned, trying to reconcile Ilona's mention of Spike with the Slayer that had curled up in his arms and cried over her lost vampire almost every night since he'd met her. “But he's dead,” he stated flatly. “She said she saw... that there was no way he could've survived. And she wouldn't lie to me.”

Ilona's eyes widened. “ _Spike_ was the Slayer's vampire?” She'd heard countless tales of the girl who had given her love too late to a vampire that died to save the world, but never had the name of the lost lover been mentioned. And now that same lover had gone into battle against the Black Thorn, a fight that he never could've won, so he was gone once more. _“Poverina.“_

Methos relaxed his grip, slowly rubbing her arms. “A good reason never to fall in love, isn't it?”

“Absolutely. Especially since one who falls in love must risk living on should they lose their lover.” Ilona slid a hand up his chest, curling it around his neck. Sliding into his lap, she breathed, “And a life without lovers is not to be thought of.” She pulled him down for a kiss, and as he eased her back onto the bed, both forgot about the Slayer and her vampire, losing themselves in the languid embrace of long time lovers as easily as they always did.


	2. Chapter 2

_It was her first dance, and everybody else was already out on the floor. She'd been so excited about this, eager to show off the beautiful dress her mother had surprised her with and the new necklace and earrings that were left on her bed, but now that she looked out at the dancing couples, she felt the thrill draining away. They all looked so comfortable, so natural and normal, each face alight with a pure joy that she didn't think she'd ever known. Xander and Willow smiled at her and beckoned her onto the floor to join them and their partners, but she shook her head. "I can't," she whispered._

_"Be a shame for you to miss out on the whole dance, luv. Got all dolled up for it, must wanna take your turn out there, yeah?" His voice shivered down her spine, but she didn't dare look over her shoulder at him. Bad things always happened when she looked back._

_"I - I'm not ready. I don't know the steps. I haven't practiced. I -" His snort cut off her litany of reasons for holding back._

_Cool air washed over the side of her neck as he leaned forward, a hand sliding up her arm so lightly that she almost missed the caress. "That's a load of crap, Slayer. Anyone knows the dance, it's you. Made up your own steps, picked your own partners… hell, even changed the music, didn't you?"_

_Did she really do all that? "Only because you said I could,” she argued. "I was willing to compromise, if you remember.” A strong arm slipped around her waist, and she sighed as she was pulled back against a lean body. Her eyes drifted closed and she rested her head on his shoulder. "Dance with me, Spike."_

_He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. "All we've ever done, innit?"_

_"It's what we're good at," she replied with a smile, tilting her head to offer the bare expanse of her throat up for his gaze, the heat from the blue eyes almost burning her as they swept over her skin._

_Lips ghosted briefly over her pulse point before he straightened and stepped back. "Can't dance with you anymore, pet. Got a different piper callin' my tune."_

_She turned to look and the pain in his eyes nearly undid her. He looked as though he'd seen all the suffering of the world, like it all rode on his shoulders. "Spike, wait -" She stretched her hand out to him, and before her eyes he began to burn, flames eating away at his skin until he crumbled to ash._

_Pain sizzled across her hand and she jerked it back, then stared in horrified fascination at the blood that ran freely from the numerous cuts there. "It's Summers blood," Dawn said, and Buffy jerked her head to the side to see her sister standing in a sickeningly familiar gown, blood dripping slowly out from under the hem. "Just like mine."_

_"She's not ready to know that yet," a low voice purred. Buffy turned to see a tall, dark figure clad in leather and satin come prowling out of the shadows. He walked over to her, then kicked his feet through the ashes on the floor, scattering them into a wind that swirled up around him. "Nice to see he made something of himself, isn't it?"_

_"You," she breathed, lowering her bloody hand. She gripped the stake tightly, praying that her hold wasn't too slick to drive it home._

_Angelus smiled "Hello, lover."_

Her own scream woke her up, the sound echoing in her ears long after it faded away. Buffy bolted upright in bed, panting as she struggled to get her bearing back. Spike… dancing… burning... God, why couldn't she stop dreaming about him?

A brief glance at the calendar on her bedside table was all it took to remind her why: yesterday he'd been gone for a year. She hadn't done anything to mark the occasion, but then there was no grave for her to visit, no cemetery to keep her vigil in the way Spike had done for her when she was gone. She just had her memories and the increasingly awkward reactions from her friends anytime she mentioned him. It seemed only Buffy and Dawn really wanted to remember the bleached blond, snarky vampire that had saved the world… but maybe that was how it should be. They were the ones he'd really considered family, after all.

She slid out of bed and headed into the bathroom to start getting ready for the day. As she stepped into the shower, she wondered what Spike would think of her life now. What would he say about Adam, and her new life in Italy? Probably something scathing, with plenty of British insults thrown in for good measure, she decided, chuckling at the thought of his outrage if he knew she was considered one of the glitterati now.

Yeah, it was a good bet that Spike would hate seeing her on Adam's arm, but she'd needed someone and Adam had been there for her. She knew he was usually the love 'em and leave 'em type, had heard warning after warning at almost every club they went to, and was practical enough to admit that she might well have ended up another notch in his bedpost if she'd actually been stupid enough to go to bed with him when he first asked her. Buffy often thought he'd offered out of a sense of obligation, some kind of belief that he'd be insulting her if he didn't try to seduce her, because when she'd said no, he'd actually seemed relieved. And he was right - they were much better as friends, and God only knew she'd needed those.

Somehow it was easier to talk about Spike to someone who'd never known him. Dawn was so busy with all of her new friends that Buffy didn't want to bring her down, Willow was off studying magic, and Xander wasn't even an option. While he'd lost someone as well, he'd never liked Spike, absolutely hated the thought of her and Spike, and was also wandering around Africa gathering Slayers. So that left Adam.

He was a lot like Spike, actually - both were incredibly handsome, arrogant, handsome, sexy as hell men who were absolutely certain of their appeal and place in the world. They were pretty damn tactile, too, and she wondered if Spike would've enjoyed cuddling in front of a movie as much as Adam did. From the times she'd woken up wrapped around him and the way he'd looked at her when she curled in his lap during Willow's spell, she was pretty sure the answer was yes. Granted, Adam didn't love her, wouldn't let a god torture him to keep her little sister safe or seek out a soul for her, but that was okay. Those were Spike things, and she kinda wanted to keep it that way.

Rinsing off, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. After knocking on Dawn's door to get her up, she went back to her room and started getting dressed. Looking at her calendar again, she sighed. It just didn't seem right not to do something. If Dawn didn't have any plans today maybe they could go out to lunch, have a few glasses of wine and spend some time remembering their vampire.


	3. Chapter 3

Ever since Ilona told him about the two vampires that had died in Los Angeles, Methos hadn't been able to stop thinking about them. Or more to the point, thinking about what, if anything, he should tell the Slayer about them. Angel was irrelevant, always had been so far as he was concerned. A word or two in the right minion's ear here, a little extra string pulling there, and he was kept busy and out of Methos's sight. Besides, while news of her first love's death might sadden the Slayer, it wouldn't destroy her.

Saying anything about Spike, however, very well could. When he had first met her, the Slayer had been mourning the loss of her vampire for months with no relief. He'd seen the sorrow deep in her eyes, recognized the way the grief was eating away at her heart and soul even if it had left her beautiful surface unmarked, and her pain had called out to his own. He'd decided to give her whatever solace he could, if only so he could see what she looked like when her smile was real. Over pasta at Luna's the next night, he told her about his own lost love and his failed quest to save her. She was the first person besides Duncan and Amanda that he'd shared the story with, and her quiet sympathy soothed an ache that he hadn't even realized was there.

Dinner led to a night out dancing, and before he realized it, Methos was spending almost every free night at the Slayer's apartment, the two of them curled up on the sofa watching TV and talking in low voices as they tried to find their balance again. He knew that Rome was abuzz with talk about them, knew that the little boy that followed the Slayer around had created some great romantic story for them, but didn't really care. Let her be known as The Immortal's newest flame - if nothing else, it would add to her legend and perhaps afford her a little extra protection from some of the city's darker denizens.

Had the vampires been told of the Slayer who now spent her evenings with their old rival? Was that what had brought them both hurrying across the globe, instead of the minion that he'd expected to come retrieve the head? He chuckled at the memory of the little trick he'd played, wishing he could have seen Angel's face when he opened the bag and found the bomb. It really hadn't been very sporting of him, but he couldn't resist the chance to take the vampire down a few pegs. Needling him had always been an amusing way to pass some time, the affronted rage that the young demon always affected whenever his plans went awry almost as satisfying for Methos as getting under Duncan's skin. Almost.

“Adam? Come see what we bought!” He smiled at the happy voice that called for him, getting to his feet and going out into the living room. The Slayer and her sister sat on the couch, surrounded by bags from all types of stores.

“I hope you left some things in the stores, _dolcezza_. Rome depends on the tourists being able to shop for much of its revenue, you know,” he teased in a low voice.

Dawn threw a small pillow at his head, which he caught easily. “Just for that, we shouldn't show you anything,” the teenager threatened.

“Promise?” He laughed and dodged the next missile that came flying at him.

Buffy shook her head. “Knock it off, you two. And Adam, come on. You've got to see what I bought at Dolce!”

Methos took a seat in the chair near the couch and watched the two girls as they pulled clothes out of the shopping bags, laughing and chattering away about their newest finds. They practically glowed with health and vitality, and in that instant, his mind was made up. He had no idea how it was that the vampire had come back to life, or why he wouldn't have sought out the Slayer he claimed to love as soon as he could, but he knew one thing - he couldn't tell Buffy that her vampire was dead... again. She was just starting to live again, and something like this would set her back to the earliest days of her grief.

“ _Signor_ , the director of Wolfram & Hart, she wishes to speak with you.”

Methos nodded grimly, wondering what kind of fresh hell had broken out that Ilona was calling. “I'll be right back,” he promised, catching hold of Buffy's hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Sure thing,” she chirped, smiling brightly at him before she turned back to Dawn and the boots they'd been fussing over.

Heading for his study, he picked the phone up and said, “Yes, Ilona?”

“ _Caro_ , so sorry to bother you, but I received a report that you will want to hear about. In Los Angeles, the Wolfram & Hart office has been rebuilt. And the director, he is still Angelus!”

The immortal frowned. “I thought you said he died in the fight against the Black Thorn.”

“This is what I was told, but now here he is, sitting in the new office with his humans by his side. The information, it was faulty, no?” He could almost see her shrug. Ilona always accepted things so easily, with such equanimity - it was one of the things he usually found most charming about her. But there were times he wished that she was a little more curious.

“So he's just back, then? What about -”

“There was no mention of anybody but Angelus or his humans. I think there is only one souled vampire in the world now.” She paused, then offered, “I could ask the mystics to check, if you like.”

“No, that's not necessary. I'm sure if he was there, you'd have heard about it.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Thanks for calling. I'll see you Wednesday?”

She laughed. “But of course!”

Methos laid the handset back down and sank into his office chair. As much as he might like to believe that the information Ilona gave him was complete, he knew she probably wasn't telling him everything. But if Angel was alive, whether he'd died to begin with or not, he had to admit that there was a strong possibility that Spike was back as well. The only question was how deep he wanted to dig before he said anything to Buffy.

A tap on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. “Hey there, grumpy guy. Bad news?”

“No, just unexpected.” He beckoned her inside. “Did you want to go out dancing tonight?”

Hazel eyes lit up as she smiled. “Sounds great! Give me a chance to really show off my new clothes. Gotta remind everybody that The Immortal isn't the only hottie around, huh?”

He chuckled. “As though you're not well aware of the looks you get. Shall we say ten o'clock, perhaps dinner out at Luna's first?”

“Works for me. I'll give 'em a call so they know to have your usual table ready.” Buffy grinned and hurried off to call the restaurant and pick out the right clothes for that evening.

For several seconds after she left, he tried to convince himself he wasn't the one responsible for looking into things with Wolfram & Hart. But Buffy deserved to know, and he had to admit that he was more than a little curious as well. So that left him with only one option, and distasteful as it might be, he really had no choice. With a sigh, he reached for the phone and dialed the number he'd really wanted to avoid calling.

“MacLeod, I need you to look into something for me. Call it a favor, if you will.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Ms Morgan will see you now.”

Duncan MacLeod looked up from his copy of Newsweek at the pretty blonde at the receptionist desk. He set the magazine aside and got to his feet. “That's very nice, but I'm waiting for-”

“Yes, I know. She'll take you to him.” The blonde glanced nervously over her shoulder, then gave him what he was sure she thought was a reassuring smile. “Take the elevator up to the 66th floor, and she'll meet you there.”

Clamping down on his irritation, he nodded shortly and walked towards the bank of elevators. Methos was going to owe him big for this. As it was, if it weren't for the story of the Slayer and her vampire, he would never have agreed to waste his day dealing with the bureaucracy that was Wolfram & Hart. He hadn't met Buffy, but he figured that anybody capable of the kind of patience that was required to put up with Methos for more than a few hours was all right by him. And she spent night after night around him! Duncan figured that put her close to sainthood, so if finding out about a vampire made her happy, he'd be glad to help.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a stunning brunette waiting for him. From her sleekly styled hair to the tips of her expensive designer shoes, she was carefully and exquisitely put together. And the red lips that were curved in a cool smile told him that she knew exactly what impact she had on a man, and wasn't above using it to get what she wanted. “Mr MacLeod,” she greeted him, her voice a low throaty purr. “May I say how honored we are to have someone of your caliber gracing our office with your presence?”

He sighed. “Let's just get this over with so I can get going, okay?”

“Of course.” She tilted her head towards the large double doors across the open space. “Everybody's waiting, so if you'll just come with me?”

Duncan nodded and followed her over to the doors. They opened onto a large room, unlike any office conference room he'd ever been in. Instead of the beige walls, bland decor, and overly bright fluorescent lighting he'd been expecting, the walls were covered with a deep blood red silk, with iron sconces set at regular intervals. Tall pillar candles cast a dim light and filled the air with a heady scent that he identified almost automatically as a blend of cinnamon and nutmeg, a surprisingly cozy holiday mixture for the clearly Gothic setting in front of him. The long black table was surrounded with high-backed chairs, only the two on either side of one end occupied.

The men that sat in them were obviously human, but there was something about both of them that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. It was almost like the feeling he got when he was in the presence of another immortal, but he knew that was impossible. Wolfram & Hart hadn't employed immortals for centuries, not since the Wars of the Roses. He dismissed the black man with the shaved head as an overt threat, focusing instead on the other, more slender man. There was an almost visible aura of menace that surrounded him, a sense that he could very easily slit someone's throat and watch coldly as they died at his feet. It was the same feeling that he sometimes got around Methos, the knowledge that here was a man equally as capable of watching dispassionately as thousands died as he was of taking great enjoyment in the prolonged torture and extended death of a single person.

“Mr MacLeod,” the dangerous man greeted him in a clipped, lightly accented voice. “We have been asked to ascertain the reason behind your request to meet with -”

“Shove it, Wes,” the black man said, before turning a hard look on Duncan. “Look, let's get to the point. What do you want with the boss, huh?”

“I have some questions about what happened a while ago,” he stated flatly. “And that's all I'm saying until I see him.”

Wesley studied him for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “Get him,” he said to the woman behind Duncan's shoulder, his eyes never leaving the immortal's face. She sauntered away amid a whisper of silk and perfume, leaving all three men waiting in a silence that grew tenser by the moment.

Duncan was almost ready to call the meeting a loss and walk out, when the door at the opposite end of the room opened, and the vampire walked in. With just the first look, it was easy to see why he had become a legend in both the human and otherworldly realms. He was tall, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, but what caught the eye was the easy assurance and casual arrogance that was visible in every line of his body. Leather and satin were wrapped around him in an outfit that was almost certainly custom tailored, probably at enough cost to feed a small African nation for several years. His eyes were the real tell, though - cold and calculating like a snake's, they held a hint of amusement that made Duncan's stomach tighten. At least the immortals he had faced in The Game were human once, with all of the attendant virtues and weaknesses that humanity carried. This, though... this was a demon wearing the skin of a man, as close to pure evil given human form as anything he'd ever seen, and Duncan both hated and feared him on sight.

Angelus sank into the chair at the head of the table, waving one hand towards the place at the foot. “Have a seat. I heard you were asking about me, and I gotta say, I'm always flattered when people take an interest, but I'm hoping you have a good reason for dragging me out of bed in the middle of the afternoon.”

Duncan sat down slowly, taking a deep breath to try and banish the unusual onslaught of unease that he felt in the vampire's presence. He didn't bother with preliminaries that might extend the time he had to be around him, but launched right into his reason for being there. “I needed to ask you about the night you attacked the Black Thorn, and the rumors that have been circulating since then.”

“And what kind of rumors might those be?” The big man chuckled, leaning back in his chair like some kind of ancient king reclining upon his throne.

“They said you died, that everyone who fought with you died as well.”

“Well, my first question would be to find out who 'they' is, since I know none of my own would've said a word.” Not a glance was spared for his lieutenants, but the threat of Angelus's displeasure crackled in the air around them all the same.

Duncan hesitated for a second. Methos hadn't exactly said to keep him out of it, but what little he knew about his sometime friend's reputation as The Immortal made him think Angelus might not welcome the inquiry. Still, letting an enemy know that you weren't dead had to be a good thing, right? “I have a friend in Rome with, shall we say, a bit of an interest about it.”

Angelus laughed, a rich, rolling sound that filled the room. “The Immortal,” he stated. “Who probably wants to know if I'm going to be paying dear, sweet Buffy a visit anytime soon to try and win her heart away from him, is that right?”

What was he supposed to say to that? _Actually, he couldn't care less about you, it's the one she loves that he's asking about._ “He likes to know what's going on.”

“Yeah, I just bet he does. Well, you can tell him that we're all just fine, we appreciate the concern, and as long as he keeps Buffy on the other side of the Atlantic, he's welcome to her.”

He nodded. “So all of your people made it, then?”

Angelus's eyes narrowed as he studied the man at the far end of the table. “Actually, we did lose someone,” he said slowly. “My childe didn't survive the fight. He went down swinging, though, so I wouldn't feel too bad for him.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Duncan replied. “My condolences on your loss. And my friend did want me to tell you that if you needed assistance with anything...”

“Oh, I've got all the assistance here I could ever need.” A snap of the fingers summoned the woman back to the vampire's side. She slid gracefully into his lap, one hand stroking his satin-covered chest, practically purring as she rubbed her cheek over his shoulder. Angelus didn't even look at her, just smirked at Duncan and asked, “Care to join us?”

His stomach tightened at the mere thought of the demon's hands on his skin. “Maybe another time.”

“Suit yourself.” One large hand slid up beneath the woman's skirt and she shifted in his lap, uttering a soft groan of pleasure.

Duncan was beginning to wonder if he was supposed to get up and leave, or stay put for the show when the dangerous man spoke. “Charles, why don't you show Mr MacLeod out?”

The black man rose and headed for the door, pausing until Duncan rose and joined him. A long, drawn-out moan sounded behind them just before the doors closed, and they walked in silence towards the elevators. When the doors slid open, Duncan stepped inside, followed closely by his guide. As they began their descent, he asked, “Does that happen at a lot of meetings?”

He shrugged. “Boss has his own way of handlin' stuff. Me, I figure it's a vamp thing, but as long as I don't have to join in, they can do what they want, y'know?”

“Mmm. And the other vampire, the one that died... did he do that kind of thing, too?”

Gunn snorted. “Spike was a hellraiser, that was for sure, but that? Nah, he was a one-woman vamp, had it too bad for his Slayer to really look at anybody else.”

“What about Angelus? I thought he and the Slayer were involved as well.” Methos had told him about the great doomed love affair, although Duncan hadn't seen any sign of that in the vampire that was currently sitting in the conference room fingering his assistant.

“He was - look, can I trust you not to go tattling to your friend? Cause some things went down here that really changed us all, but some people, especially the Slayer, might not understand, and I promised to help my boss stay in one piece.” Duncan nodded and Gunn hit the button that stalled the elevator, then turned to face him. “Angel was trying to help take down this group called the Black Thorn. They were basically Hell's guys here on earth, and he figured that while we might not stop 'em all the way, we could at least slow 'em down, make 'em hurt a little. And we were all down with that, figured the more damage we could do, the better.”

He studied the other man for several moments, then asked quietly, “So what went wrong?”

“Don't know if you could call it wrong, just... not really somethin' we figured on. See, Angel had to get into the Circle, get 'em to accept him, and that meant doin' some stuff that was pretty wacked. Stuff that he really couldn't do with his soul.” Gunn waited until he saw comprehension dawn in Duncan's eyes, nodding to confirm the suspicion. “Guess he asked Wes to help him remove it, probably figured we'd all be dead, or else someone would shove it back in, but it didn't really work that way. The fight went down like we planned, and I'm pretty sure that I died just like Spike did, but somehow I woke up back in Wolfram & Hart afterwards. Wes was there, and Angelus, too, and that's when we found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Angelus joined up with the Black Thorn before we made our move. And with everybody else dead, he's it: head honcho, top vamp in charge.” The man sighed and reached for the control panel, setting the car in motion again. “Wes and me, we're just tryin' to make the best of it. So far, he's not that bad, seems more interested in playin' the demons against each other than really makin' trouble for people. Guess if we gotta have a demon in charge of things around here, might as well be him.”

“I see.” Neither man said anything for the remainder of the trip downstairs, each too caught up in their own thoughts to make idle small talk. Just before he stepped off the elevator, Duncan turned to look at the man. “If you decide you want a change for some reason, you can usually leave me a message at Raven's Rest, in New York.” Amanda had offered her new nightclub as a way to communicate, and something about this man told him it might be needed one day.

Gunn offered his hand for a brief, businesslike clasp. “Thanks, man. I'll remember that.” He hit the button to go back up, flashing Duncan a quick grin just before the doors closed between them.

Upstairs in the conference room, Wesley watched impassively as Lilah writhed in Angelus's lap, mewling and moaning while he brought her to a quick climax. When she slumped back against the broad chest, he asked idly, “Are you quite through, then?”

Angelus laughed and eased his hand out from beneath her skirt, pushing her back to her feet and licking his fingers clean. “Need to lighten up and enjoy life a little more, Wes.”

“Indeed,” was the dry response. Icy blue eyes fixed on Lilah, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Make sure Mr MacLeod has left the building, please.”

She nodded and headed off to do as he asked, hips swaying in a tantalizing rhythm that held both men's attention until she had left the room. Angelus leaned back in his chair, sliding a hand down to cup and stroke his erection. “Well now, that wasn't very nice. Who am I gonna bend over the table and fuck now?”

Wesley's gaze slid over the prominent bulge beneath the leather. “Perhaps your pet would welcome the attention.”

“Hmm, not a bad idea. I have been kinda neglecting him lately.” Angelus moaned low in his throat and thrust up against his palm. He slowly let his hand fall away as he stretched and rose to his feet, well aware of the way the human's eyes lingered on him. With the sudden strike of a snake, he lashed out, grabbing hold of Wesley's shirt, dragging him around the edge of the table until the lean body was pressed against his own. Bending to claim the man's mouth in a savage kiss filled with thrusting tongues and rubbing hips, he smiled when he drew back and looked into glazed, lust-filled eyes. “Of course, you know you're still getting fucked later, right?'

“Uh-huh.” Angelus laughed at the dazed response, slid a hand down to squeeze Wesley's dick, then turned and headed for his private elevator. He'd let Wesley have his fun bending Lilah over the table, even if he made him pay for it later. For now, though, the prospect of an afternoon playing with his pet was too good to pass up.


	5. Chapter 5

The faint chime of the elevator meant that Master was back, but he didn't go running to greet him. Not that it mattered all that much, anyway - Master wasn't about to be pleased if He didn't want to be, no matter how much bowing or scraping was done. So he did what he did best these days: he lay still and waited.

Soon enough, footsteps rang out on the hardwood floors and the door to his room swung open. One foot nudged the most recent bruise on the base of his spine. “Wake up, boy.”

He opened his eyes and rolled over, looking up into the whiskey brown ones above him. There was warmth in them today, amusement and something that might once upon a time have passed for affection. Master was in a good mood, then. Sitting up, he waited for the whistle that brought him up into a kneel, looking up with the carefully blank expression that Master preferred. Master in a good mood was something to be wished for at any cost, because Master in a bad one was unthinkable.

Master slid a hand down to squeeze the bulge in His pants, then asked softly, “Want it, boy?”

He whined in response, the sound high and soft in his throat, and Master laughed. “That's it, boy. Love to hear you beg for my cock.” Master unfastened His pants and reached inside to pull His prick out, slowly stroking it in front of his eyes.

He licked his lips, eager to taste but knowing well enough that he had to wait for permission. When Master extended His hand, brushing fingers across his lips, he eagerly opened for them, sucking and licking the traces of precome from His skin. When they were clean, Master slid them free, then cupped his head and pulled him forward. “Suck me.”

The order was barely out of Master's mouth before lips closed around His cock. He didn't bother with the licking and teasing that he liked to do- Master had said suck, so he slid all the way down until his nose was nestled in dark curls, then slowly retreated. Up and down, in and out, each time taking Master all the way in, sucking with long, leisurely strokes.

Master moaned as the shaft in his mouth twitched. “Yeah, such an eager little cocksucker, aren't you, boy?”

He whimpered around Master's cock, then sped up a bit at the touch on his head. His own dick was aching, wishing for his touch, but he knew better than to even think about it. Sometimes he wanted a punishment and those were the times he touched, closed his hand around himself and stroked until he came, thick white liquid oozing out to coat his shaft. Tonight he wanted to taste Master, hungered for the heavy, bitter taste of Him the way it seemed he always did, so he tried his best to ignore his own need and instead sucked harder.

The faint scrape of teeth made Master groan and thrust forward, and then hands were on his head, holding him still as Master started to fuck his mouth. “Yeah, fuck. That's my boy. Wanna treat, huh? Gonna.... ohhhh, shit, gonna give you.. deeper, little one. Take me all the way down.” He obediently opened his throat, swallowing around Master's cock as it slid down past his tongue.

“Jesus Christ!” Master's hands slid into his hair, holding tight as He thrust harder and faster. He tasted Master's precome as it coated His shaft and moaned his hunger for more. The vibration on the sensitive flesh was enough to make Master swear and slam His hips forward, His cock jerking as He started to shoot in heavy spurts down His slave's throat.

He went still when Master started to come, swallowing around Master's dick until a tug on his hair told him to stop. Pulling back, he carefully began to lick Master clean, his tongue moving in long, brief strokes until the last drop was gone. A hand rumpled his hair briefly. “Good boy. Up on the bed, now. I've got something special for you.”

He placed a kiss on the tip of Master's cock and crawled over to the large, sumptuous bed, crouching at the foot for a second before making the leap up, sure to keep his movements as graceful as possible. Master liked to watch him crawl, said that he looked like a cat when he did it right, and from the soft groan of approval that sounded behind him, he was doing well. The second he touched the sheets, the scent of Master and sex rose up around him, a heady blend of sensuality that thickened with every inch he gained. When he paused in the center and widened his stance, he moaned at the aromas that drifted up to him. Master had spent last night with His humans, the three of them entwined in the sprawling bed, their sounds of pleasure taunting him as he huddled in his lonely corner.

Master's hand stroked his back, fingertips trailing lightly over his skin. He leaned into the soft strokes, mewling softly as they moved down his spine. A gentle shove rocked him forward and he lowered his head, easing down to the bed on his elbows and spreading his knees further apart, opening up for Master as automatically and naturally as a child seeking its mother's breast.

The snick of a bottle cap being flipped open was followed shortly by a slick finger brushing over his hole. It didn't enter, just stroked and teased, sending little tingles through him. He bit his lip and struggled to keep from tensing up, waiting as calmly as he could until finally... “Who are you?”

The question sent heat sliding through his veins. It was a familiar game, this give and take, and he answered eagerly, “Boy.”

The finger eased inside him, slowly penetrating until it stilled and Master continued. “And who am I?”

“Master.” He breathed the word as something sacred, then moaned as a fingernail scraped over the nub deep inside him.

“And who do you belong to?”

“Master.” This time he was rewarded with another finger, both moving in and out in a twisting motion, opening him up in a mocking parody of considerate lovemaking.

Both fingers retreated briefly, then slid back inside, coated with more lube, moving slickly in and out of him. “What do you exist for?”

He moaned as a third finger brushed the outside, making his nerves sizzle. “To please Master.”

It slid in as well, leaving him feeling packed full. Master fucked him slowly for a few seconds, then asked, “What are you?”

“Master's bitch.”

Master grunted and worked the next finger inside. Four massive fingers spread him open, spitting him like an animal over the fire. He whined, but Master never strayed from His purpose, rocking His thumb against the smooth patch of skin behind his balls. “What will you offer Master, hmmm?”

He gasped, clenching the sheet in his hands at the promise in that slow movement of Master's thumb. “Everything!”

The nozzle of the bottle nudged his stretched entrance and there was cold as Master squirted more gel to ease His way. His fingers shifted as He tucked His thumb into His palm and the slave screamed at the stretch when Master pushed forward. It felt like he was going to tear open when the thick, meaty heel of Master's hand pressed into his body, opening him father than he'd ever known. A nudge forward and he felt himself close around Master's wrist, holding Master's whole hand deep inside him.

“So beautiful, boy. You should see yourself, with my hand all the way inside you,” Master purred. His fingers moved in the briefest of flutters, but it sent a shock wave through him that made him moan as his cock filled and slapped against his stomach in a dizzying rush. “Do you deserve to come, boy?”

He whimpered, and Master moved His fingers again. That hand could tear him apart from the inside if it wanted, rip him open in the most primal and violent of ways, and the sheer potential power of it was making him weak. “I-if Master wishes.”

“Beg me.” The dark command was barely out of Master's mouth before the cry ripped free.

“Please, Master!”

Master curled His hand slowly into a fist, wringing another long groan out of his mouth. “Give me a show, boy. Fuck yourself on my fist, show Master how badly you need it.”

He lunged clumsily forward, then shoved back, moaning at the way his insides seemed to rearrange themselves around Master's fist. His hands clutched the sheet as he sought a rhythm, tried to fall into the routine his body knew by heart, but it was elusive, held just out of his reach. A broken moan filled the air, followed by a whimpered, “Please, Master...”

A twist of Master's wrist and knuckles grazed the sweet spot inside. His eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the headboard, dazed with the onslaught of pleasure. The rush proved to be the encouragement he needed and soon he was rocking back and forth, driving Master's fist into him over and over again until his cock was painfully hard, precome leaking in a steady drizzle that dampened the sheet beneath him.

“Fuck, that's hot,” Master breathed. “You're a slut, aren't you, boy? So hungry to have something up inside you that you'll take anything.”

“Yes, Master,” he mewled, throwing his head back as he moved faster. He was dangerously close to breaking a basic rule, fighting the need to come with all his might.

Master watched intently and suddenly pressed down hard against his prostate. “Come, boy.”

He wailed as his cock jerked at the command and then he was coming in hard pulses that soaked the bed, shooting again and again until he ran dry. But still Master's fist worked him, sending him spiraling into a second, third and fourth orgasm, merciless in the way He milked him. When at last Master eased His hand free, he was shaking, his body wracked with shudders of pleasure, the onslaught having hit him especially hard after his long denial.

He seemed to float somewhere above himself, only vaguely aware of being moved, shifted and rolled until he lay on his back. Master loomed over him when some sense of reality returned, His dark eyes hot and glittering as they stared down at him. “Who do you want to own you?” He demanded. “Who fucks you?”

His eyes fluttered open and his lips curved in a tiny smile. “You, Master,” he whispered, reaching up to pull the dark head down towards his own. He'd pay for his boldness later, he knew, pay in blood and screams, but for now Master kissed him, tongue sliding into his mouth just before His cock slid inside and Master began to fuck him, every stroke reminding him of where he belonged, breaking him all over again until he could do nothing but cling to the strong body and beg for more.


	6. Chapter 6

_"Yes, you will do."_ Dawn remembered hearing the words a few minutes before the strange blue-haired woman had reached for her and everything went black. They were still echoing in her ears when she woke up and tried to make sense of whatever had happened sometime later.

Her head ached like she'd slept for way too long, and the first movement she made had the whole room spinning around her. Dawn closed her eyes again and tried to breathe evenly and shallowly in an attempt to control her churning stomach. When she felt like she might be steady, she tried opening her eyes again, slower this time. One thing was clear - wherever she was, it wasn't her apartment.

The neutral colors and carefully bland pictures, along with the tasteful but completely unspecific decor practically screamed nice hotel room. Of course, that didn't help much, seeing as they tended to be pretty much the same everywhere. But at least she wasn't trapped in some kind of sleazy fleabag motel, so that was a plus. Kidnappers usually didn't bother seeing to the comfort of someone they intended to kill or -

"You have changed form since last I saw you, but your nature remains much the same." Dawn swallowed hard and turned to look at the figure that stood a few feet away from the bed. Whoever - or whatever - it was obviously knew about her, but something about the odd phrasing there seemed lacking in the menace she might've otherwise expected.

"Um… do I know you?"

The figure stepped a little closer, head cocked as though to study her, and the girl tensed. She knew that blue-streaked hair and cold blue eyes. The woman had come up to her in the club when she took a break from dancing and asked if she was Dawn Summers. No sooner had she said yes then she'd heard those words: _'Yes, you will do'_ , and felt a hand on her arm. "Who are you? What did you do to me?" the teen hissed.

She didn't answer for a moment, then said in a low voice, "You are afraid."

"Duh. It's kinda expected when you get kidnapped by some weirdo leather chick," she shot back.

"Your form… you share human emotions." Ooookay, now it was starting to get creepy. Dawn started inching back on the bed, not at all reassured when the strange woman's lips turned up in a half smile.

Reminding herself that Buffy would be looking for her by now, she said, "Look, let's try this again. Who are you and what do you want?"

The woman drew herself up to her full height, and for a second, she almost seemed to actually grow, as though she were somehow bigger than human. "I am Illyria, god-king of the primordium, shaper of things, ruler and master of all." The teenager's jaw dropped, and one blue eyebrow rose. "Do you remember nothing of me, then?"

Dawn shook her head slowly. "Are you… like Glory?"

Illyria snorted, the noise at odds with her regal stance. "Glorificus is a simpering, empty-headed fool, changing with the wind. I am as I ever was, no matter the shell I clothe myself in."

"S-so what do you want from me? If this is about me being the Key, I don't even know if -"

"Your value lies in the regard I have been told your sister holds for you." Piercing blue eyes swept over her briefly. "Had I known you were a Key, I would not have resorted to the magic I used to put you to sleep." She paused and said slowly, "My apologies."

Dawn didn't know quite what to think. This woman seemed to know about her, called herself a god, and was now apologizing to her?!? "Sure, no - wait. _A_ Key? As in, there's more than one?"

"Many." A shrug dismissed the topic and Illyria moved on. "You will stay here until I have spoken with your sister. I require her assistance to retrieve my pet from the confines of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart."

"Wolfram & Hart? You mean like the place Angel runs? Why didn't you just ask her to help instead of going through all this, then?"

The god ignored the question, continuing as though the girl hadn't spoken at all. "The room is contained with a spell whose power is beyond your abilities to penetrate. I will see to whatever human requirements you have, but I must leave soon."

Dawn shook her head and jumped up. "Okay, then, my first 'human requirement' is freedom. Look, I'll go with you to see Buffy and -" Illyria held up her hand and a shock wave ripped through the girl, dropping her back to the bed, gasping for air.

"I regret what must be done, but my pet cannot wait much longer," the Old One informed her. Impersonal hands pulled a blanket over her trembling form, and for a second she thought she saw an almost human softness enter those chilling blue eyes, but it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "Rest easy, young one. You are not to leave this room, but you will not be harmed." Abruptly her voice changed, taking on a heartbreakingly familiar cadence and accent. "Too valuable as a bargainin' chip for somethin' like that, ain'tcha?"

Dawn's eyes, which had begun to flutter closed, flew open. She knew those words, knew that sound! "Spike?" she whispered, but only the enigmatic smile of the god answered her just before she slipped into a deep sleep once more.


	7. Chapter 7

“That was so cool!” Buffy followed Methos in, still laughing about the vampire they'd run across on their way home from the movies. “I especially liked that part where he tried to act like watching Jackie Chan movies made him some Big Bad or something, and then his face when you blocked everything without missing a beat...” She giggled and headed into the living room. “Just wait'll I tell -” The sight of the blue-haired, armored woman standing in front of the couch stopped her cold.

Illyria stared at the little blonde girl for a minute, openly curious about her. So this was the Slayer her pet talked about, the one he claimed was a warrior better than both the vampires who had stood against her. “You are the Slayer,” she stated. “I require your assistance.”

“Uh. Huh.” Buffy nodded and then screamed, “Adam!” without once looking away from the stranger who had invaded The Immortal's domain. She heard his steps moving faster as he came to answer the call, and when she could see him out of the corner of her eye, she asked, “Friend of yours?”

Methos shook his head, although he didn't take his eyes off the woman standing in his living room. Power poured off her in waves, enough to make him almost dizzy with it and he knew that if she was here for The Game, he wouldn't be able to resist. He'd have to try for her head or lose his own. “Can't say that I've had the pleasure.” Taking Buffy's hand, he tugged her back a few steps and inclined his head towards the woman. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am -”

“Your identity is of no consequence to me.” A hand whisked across the air, dismissing him with a gesture that at once intrigued and enraged him. What the hell did she mean, discounting him like that without even bothering to find out who she disdained so easily? “I am here to speak with the Slayer Buffy Summers, and you are interfering.”

Buffy yanked her hand out of Methos's and crossed her arms. “Yeah, well maybe the Slayer doesn't wanna talk to you, sister!”

Thin lips curved in a half smile. “Sister, yes. And where is your sister, Slayer?”

A cold chill crept up her spine, but Buffy struggled to keep from showing the rush of panic that those words brought on. “She - she's out with friends.” But a glance at the clock wasn't needed to tell her that it was after one in the morning, and Dawn should've been home long ago. “If you've done anything to her...”

“She is unharmed, and will remain so. In return, you will assist me in retrieving my pet from the vampire who has stolen him and now keeps him from me.” Illyria paused and added, “He is one I would not wish to lose, and I have no great faith in his ability to continue unbroken for much longer. If you need to contact the red witch for aid, you have my leave to do so.”

Buffy would've lunged for the woman, but Methos grabbed her arm to hold her still. “Whose leave does she have? Tell us your name and we'll see if we can help you.”

“Adam! You're really gonna bargain with someone who'd take Dawn?”

The Slayer's protest was silenced by the low voice that proclaimed, “I am Illyria, god-king and wielder of vengeance, traverser of space and time, beloved and feared among all.”

Holy shit. If she was who she said she was, then they were in the presence of a living legend. “Old One,” he whispered, his hand reflexively tightening around Buffy's arm.

She yanked free of his grasp and spat, “You ever hear what happened to the last god that threatened my sister?”

“Glorificus.” Another flippant wave of the hand. “A vain, preening creature, almost as far beneath my notice as your kind. And yet you defeated her, although it meant your own death.” Illyria cocked her head, her gaze sharpening as she looked at the girl. “Perhaps you are more than you seem, much as my pet is.”

“Oh, you bet I am,” Buffy retorted, stalking towards the god. She reached out to grab her, but the woman flung her hand out and the air around her suddenly got heavy and thick, hard to move through. Buffy tried to fight it, but when she was finally able to move, Illyria was over by the balcony.

“I tire of these games. Do you agree then to aid me in reclaiming my pet?”

Methos spoke before Buffy could. “We will offer what help we can. But should this be beyond our powers, you will not hold either of us or the Slayer's sister accountable. Agreed?” His words were carefully chosen, oddly stilted and formal, the speech of an earlier age slow in returning to him.

Illyria thought for a moment, then nodded. “The Slayer's sister will be returned when we have completed our task, whether my pet accompanies us or not.” She turned towards the balcony doors, then looked back. “You will arrange for us to leave for Los Angeles after sunset. Every hour that my pet spends in the confines of his captivity with the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart risks further damage, and soon he will cease to be of interest or use to any but the one who has taken him from me.” The god stepped out through the French doors and off the balcony, leaving Buffy and Methos staring after her.

Buffy was the first one to snap out of her daze. She smacked him in the shoulder and demanded, “Why'd you say that? We shouldn't be helping her take some poor guy prisoner! And what the hell does she mean about us going to LA? Angel's in charge of Wolfram & Hart there, and he wouldn't -” The words dried up as anger turned to horror. “Oh, God. He's... he lost his soul. That's why she wants Willow's help!”

He caught her just before she bolted for the phone. “Buffy, wait.” Leading her over to the couch, he drew her down onto the cushions and sank down beside her. Dreading the fury that he was sure would come, Methos took her hands in his, sighed, and began to tell her about Angel, his decision to take down the Black Thorn, the fight in the alley that had seen him die, and Duncan's description of him now alive once more in Los Angeles. Tears were running freely down Buffy's cheeks by the time he finished. “From what Duncan said, if he has Illyria's pet, he's probably just playing with him. But for a human to be in the hands of demon that long... you need to be prepared for him to be beyond help, _cara._ ”

She slid one of her hands free and wiped her cheeks, sniffling as she attempted to regain composure. “Beyond help? I can't - I don't know what you mean, Adam.”

“If his mind is broken, the best we can offer him is a quick and painless death,” he explained. She started shaking her head and he frowned. “Buffy, stop. Think about it. The things demons do to their pets, even when they care about them, are difficult for most humans to even comprehend, let alone live through. If he's still alive at all, he's almost certainly insane, and we wouldn't be doing him any favors by trying to bring him back to occupy a world that he's not meant for anymore. Death would be a kindness, and I won't deny him that if he needs it.”

“But... killing an innocent... I mean, it's not his fault he's a slave!”

Methos shushed her, stroking her hair and tucking it back behind her ear in deliberate mimicry of her beloved vampire. It was one of the few things that seemed to pull her out of these kinds of states and make her listen again. “Slayer, if he's a slave, he'll thank us for that final freedom. And if he's not, well... maybe he was never innocent to begin with.”

Buffy nodded slowly, drinking his words in, still not really wanting to believe in the task that might be laid out for them. Finally she got to her feet and asked, “Can you take care of the plane tickets? I'll call Will and ask her to meet us at LAX.”

“Of course.” As she headed into the kitchen, he reached into his jeans and pulled out his cell phone, hitting the first button on his speed dial. It was answered after a fairly long time, and he smiled at the disgruntled tone. “ _Bellissima_ , I need a favor. I hope your company plane is available, because I have to take a trip. And I'll need to postpone our usual Wednesday afternoon, but I promise to make it up to you as soon as I get back.”


	8. Chapter 8

The knife skated over his skin, blood spilling in shining red ribbons over the almost white flesh as it parted seamlessly beneath the blade. Angelus tilted his head, admiring the contrast of colors. He was definitely going to have to paint this someday. But not tonight - he was having too much fun to trade the knife for a paintbrush just yet. Drawing the blade across the muscled plane of his boy's chest, he coated the blade in blood and raised it to his mouth, licking the metal clean. “Pretty good,” he commented. “But it still seems like it could use a little something...”

Angelus buried the dagger hilt-deep in his boy's stomach, relishing the scream that tore free with the sudden action. He bent to lick one of the long gashes on the pale chest and nodded. “Nothing like pain and terror to bring out that extra flavor, hmmm?”

Only silence answered him, and he glanced at the slack face to see that the boy had passed out. Some people just couldn't withstand torture. Sighing, the vampire pulled the knife free and strolled over to his chair, idly licking his pet's blood off the blade. He sank down into the large high-backed seat and, while he waited for the boy to wake up, thought about the night he'd finally broken.

Almost from the instant they'd all woken up in Wolfram & Hart, Spike had been tethered and secluded in his apartment. Angelus wasn't about to chance any surprise alliances this time, especially when he could tell that his childe was still in possession of his soul. There was no doubt in the older vampire's mind that he'd double cross him the second he got the opportunity, so the answer was simple: make sure he never had the chance. Angelus viewed it as a nice bonus that Spike just happened to look delectable in bruises and chains.

The blond hadn't taken to bondage all that easily. No, he'd sworn a blue streak, spat and fought, tearing long strips of his skin off with the scraping of the heavy chain over his body as he struggled against it. Angelus had tried first beating and then fucking him into submission, but he'd had to start over with every single session. Spike only recognized brute force, and that failed to quell his rebellion for long. Even losing his tongue had made little impact, as the bright blue eyes managed to speak of his hatred and contempt for his sire.

Angelus had begun to despair of ever taming the little shit, and was giving serious consideration to cutting his losses and staking him when _she_ showed up. Illyria had strolled into his office and announced that she was taking her pet back, as though he'd been hers to begin with and she'd allowed Angelus to borrow him for a bit. He'd never really intended to hand him over - if he couldn't have Spike the way he wanted him, he wasn't about to let his greatest liability go to anybody else - but he'd let her think he might long enough to get her up to the penthouse.

It had only taken her one look at Spike to see that he wasn't about to make anybody a serviceable pet. She'd glanced at the bruises and blood, the chains that were required to keep him in a kneeling position, and without saying a single word, turned and walked out. He never knew why, but that was the single act that broke Spike, succeeding where starvation, beating, torture, and rape had all failed. Three nights later, when Angelus had finally resolved to put an end to the futile pursuit, he'd come upstairs to find Spike curled into a ball in the corner. He'd looked up at Angelus's approach, and whispered, “Master.”

The single word had saved his life. From that day forward, he'd been the perfect pet - obedient, eager to please, with no thought for anything but earning a few words of approval from his sire. And Angelus loved it, gloried in the worship and adoration of his slave more and more each day. Spike was gone, completely eradicated, and in his place was this new creation, the one who answered simply to Boy. He was at last, truly and completely his, in every way. He was perfect.

A faint clink of metal pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked over at his pet to see blue eyes peering at him through thick lashes. Getting to his feet, Angelus walked over to the bound figure. “You know what happens when you fall asleep during playtime, don't you, boy?”

“Yes, Master.” Anticipation gleamed in the depths of the luminous gaze that raised to meet his fully, and Angelus slid a hand down over his stomach, palming his hardening cock.

“We'll get to your punishment later,” he promised, slowly unfastening his pants. He swiped a hand through the blood that coated the boy's chest, then began to stroke himself, moaning as he covered his dick, slicking it with the blood that was his to shed.

Blue eyes glittered as they watched, and there was no need for a command to spread as Angelus moved around behind him. He stared for a moment at the welts and bruises that were scattered in random patterns down his boy's back, reaching out to touch first a pale pink cut and then a deep purple mark before he followed the curve of the spine down to the tight little hole. Lining himself up, he thrust forward, burying himself completely with one lunge.

He practically purred when the first scream rang out, his hands finding the bruises that seemed like a permanent impression. Clutching the slim hips, he didn't allow for any chance to adjust, just started a hard fuck that soon had fresh blood flowing around his cock. It didn't take long before the first broken moan sounded, and he felt a slight push back that soon became an eager wriggle. Christ, he loved it when the boy gave in - he was like a bitch in heat, needing anything that would fill him up! The knife play had him hard enough to split stone, and Angelus knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

Shifting into his demonic aspect, he lowered his head and bit, teeth slicing into the jagged scar at the base of the neck that was almost always kept fresh these days. Fresh, endorphin-laced blood filled his mouth and another pained scream was enough to make him thrust forward again, his cock swelling with the rush of need just before he came with a muffled groan. Humping the boy slowly as he came down from his orgasm, he was still half-hard when he pulled free, his dick twitching from the recent release.

A few strokes brought him back to a full erection, and he reached up to unwrap the chains from the ceiling hook. Dragging the boy behind him, he went back to his chair and sat down. His pet fell to his knees the second they stopped, and Angelus spared a moment to reach out and smooth some of the sandy curls. “Good boy.” Picking up the glass of blood he'd had waiting, he dribbled some of it on his cock. “Come on, boy. Need to eat to keep your strength up.”

As lips closed around his cock, he leaned his head back against the chair, reaching out to pet his slave's hair, so much softer now that the gel and bleach were gone. Yes, his boy was perfect now. Pouring more blood onto his dick, Angelus thought that he really should make it a point to show him off to the rest of the world. Maybe a party of some kind? He'd tell Wesley to set it up when the human came over that night - after he'd fucked both him and Lilah senseless, of course.


	9. Chapter 9

Shortly before sunrise, they all stumbled into the hotel and headed for their particular suites. Just in time, too, because Methos was pretty sure that he'd have tried sawing his own head off with his pocket knife if he'd had to listen to any more chatter from Buffy or Willow. The two girls had spent the entire evening gossiping relentlessly, sharing tidbits about love lives and rehashing old stories and scandals ever since they fell into each other's arms in the Los Angeles airport. He was starting to think that Buffy's vampire had either been certifiable or a saint, since by all accounts he'd lived with the two of them, plus Dawn, and hadn't tried to slaughter them all.

Thanking the stars above that he'd called ahead to get the two girls one room and himself another, he dropped his bag in a chair and headed over to the bar to pour himself a large scotch. By the time half of it had vanished, he was starting to feel a little bit less inclined to eviscerate everything female on the floor, and when a knock sounded, was able to go answer the door with a cordial, if slightly strained smile. The sight of the blue-haired god on the other side was enough to dampen his polite welcome a bit, although he stepped aside to let her enter when she stepped forward, raising his glass for another drink before he closed the door. “Something I can do for you?”

“I wish to know what you are,” she replied, her words as cool and calm as if she'd said she wanted him to go to the store for milk. He considered the wisdom of attempting to play himself off as a human or demon hunter of some kind, when she continued. “That you are not human is easy to see, but neither are you any demon I have ever known.”

Methos smiled. “No, you're right about that.” He finished his drink and went back to the bar to refill it. “You want anything?”

“I require nothing.” The flat words sounded so prim that he couldn't help laughing.

Pouring scotch into a second glass, he took it over to her and went to sit on the couch, gesturing at the chair across the coffee table. “Here, have a seat. Try sipping some of that scotch and I'll see if I can explain about myself.”

He took a second to gather his thoughts, then began to tell her about The Game. He covered their inability to die, the hunger for power and thrill of the Quickening, and with her intent eyes fixed upon him, Methos found himself actually telling her of his own beginnings in Egypt. She was the first non-immortal he'd ever really given his life story to, and the sheer coldness of her eyes assured him that she would be the last to judge him for anything he'd done. It was refreshing, actually. He spoke about the Horsemen and the thirst for destruction that he'd learned with them, about the dark rush of bliss that came from the heads he'd taken and the lives he'd snuffed out, both immortal and human.

When at last he was through talking, Illyria drained her fourth glass of scotch as easily as if it had been water and set the glass on the coffee table. “I remember those of your kind, the first who could not die. They were amusing enough, and I kept several at my court. If I were not to seek my pet's return, you would be one I would consider to replace him, for I believe your deaths would give me much the same pleasure as those of your ancestors.”

The thought of his predecessors dying over and over again for the amusement of the god and her fellows sent a cold chill through him. Along with her casual mention of making him a pet, it was as stark a reminder as he could imagine that she wasn't human, no matter what she might look like at the moment. She was as ancient as the stars, cold and formidable and every bit as distant, with an eye only for what might afford her a moment's relief from the boredom of eternity. God, she was him if he were to see another ten thousand years!

Methos refilled both glasses and picked his up, watching her carefully as she did the same. He wondered if taking her head would provide him with a Quickening, and if it did, what it would feel like. Probably pack a hard enough punch to damn near blow his brains out the back of his skull, seeing as humans really weren't meant to contain that much power, and while immortals might be slightly different, they were a helluva lot closer to human than she was. But it might be worth the attempt, if the chance presented itself. He thought about feeling that much strength and power pouring into him amid the high of the Quickening, and felt his cock twitch.

In an effort to hide the sudden surge of arousal, he shifted and asked, “So how is it you're here, anyway? I thought all of the Old Ones were banished long ago.”

“Banished. A pretty word that does not do justice to the hell of the coffin and eventual sleep we were subjected to.” Her eyes darkened briefly, and he thought he could understand. Being buried was always one of an immortal's worst fears, as it meant waking up underground in that tiny chamber they all hated, having to break free and dig upwards, usually dying more than once along the way. Yes, he could see why she held such hatred for her prison. “My return was foreordained before I knew my first defeat in battle. My worshipers would not stand for me to be long from the world, and so my prison was but a temporary one.”

He didn't bother to ask if she missed having worshipers, not when her yearning for them was apparent with every word she spoke. While he'd never had a temple of devotees, in his time with the Horsemen, Methos had known acclaim, tasted real power the likes of which most immortals never even knew, and if that had been difficult to lose, he could only guess at how painful it must be to fall from adored deity to barely acknowledged demigod.

Illyria swallowed the last of her scotch and handed the glass back to him, rising from her chair. “Perhaps I will reconsider you as a pet, immortal. I believe I would find your deaths most amusing, both those you would find at my hands and those I would have you cause for me.” Her eyes swept down his frame, assessing him with a cool, calculating gaze before she nodded. “Should we fail to free my pet, you would do to take his place.”

Before Methos could protest that he didn't want to be the pet of an ancient demonic god, she turned and walked out, leaving him sitting on the couch with the empty glasses in his hands, astonished and achingly aroused by the thought of the different kinds of service she might require from her pet. It might almost be worth dying a few times to spend a night in her bed. He got up and took the glasses back to the bar, setting them down and was about to slip into the shower to seek a little relief when his cell phone rang.

Probably one of his travel companions, eager to plan the downfall of the evil law firm. Or, with his luck, Duncan wanting to meddle in his life yet again. Sighing, he went to answer it, flipping it open and answering with a resigned, “Yes?”

“ _Tesoro mio_ , what has happened? You sound as though the Hunters, they are camped on your doorstep!” Ilona's voice drifted out of the speaker, drawing a smile from him.

“Long flight,” he answered, sinking back down onto the couch. “Not that I'm not glad to hear from you, but why are you calling?”

She laughed. “How direct you are! I have wonderful news for you - Angelus, he plans a huge party for the elite of the demon world, to show his power. While you and the Slayer are at the party, drinking and dancing, the witch, she can sneak up to get this pet back! Simple and easy, and he will never be able to suspect you.”

Methos thought for a moment, turning the idea over in his mind. A chance to show up with the Slayer on his arm and flaunt her in front of Angelus was never a bad thing, and providing a distraction by having The Immortal there would certainly make it easier for Illyria and Willow to creep up to free the captive pet. Assuming, of course, that Angelus was arrogant enough to leave his pet alone in his apartment while he hosted the party. Methos thought he probably was. “You do come up with some excellent ideas,” he admitted.

“I knew you'd like it,” she purred. “A messenger will bring the tickets to the hotel tomorrow. And you can thank me next Wednesday, yes?

“Absolutely.” They said their good-byes and hung up. Methos headed towards the bedroom, already thinking about the look on Angelus's face when The Immortal waltzed in with his former lover hanging all over him. He'd have to tell Buffy to get something especially daring, maybe even give her a glass of champagne before they left, since it always loosened her up a little bit. They'd make sure that Angelus always remembered tomorrow night, both because of their appearance, and for the loss of his pet.


	10. Chapter 10

The party was in full swing when The Immortal arrived. News of his presence spread like wildfire, whispers rippling through the room as heads turned, everybody seeking a glimpse of the reclusive, mysterious legend. It was said that he had brought his newest conquest, the original Slayer Buffy Summers, with him, and many were just as curious about her as they were about him. She had brought two of the most vicious vampires in history to their knees, after all, laid them low with their love for her, and killed countless others. Glimpses of a petite blonde were all that was afforded at first, until the pair made their way through the throng of onlookers and moved towards the small platform at the end of the room, obviously intent on paying their respects to the host first.

“Everybody's staring,” Buffy whispered under her breath.

“They can't help it,” Adam replied. “We're just too pretty for them to look away.”

She laughed at his reference to himself as less than the handsome devil he was well aware he was. In her experience, she'd only ever seen one man that could be considered pretty, and that was Spike. He'd had cheekbones and full lips any supermodel would've killed for. But the most beautiful thing about him had always been his eyes. As always, the memory of the love that used to glow in those bright blue eyes sent a sharp pain through her, and she tightened her grip on Adam's arm. Spike wouldn't want her mourning, she told herself silently, repeating the words that had gotten her through so many lonely nights.

Of course, Spike probably would've given her hell over her dress tonight, too. The rich ruby silk was cut far lower and hugged her body a lot closer than Buffy was really comfortable with, but Adam had insisted. She'd gotten used to attending formal parties and fancy restaurants, but the whole ball gown scene was one she was still was adjusting to. Adam said it was to teach her that the world was still worth living in, and his unconscious echo of the words Spike once sang to her had reminded her that her vampire had died to give her that normal life she'd always wanted. It really wasn't his fault that she'd never realized something: normal was boring as hell.

But she was pretty sure that attending her ex's fancy law firm party with the guy everybody assumed she was sleeping with, all as part of an elaborate ruse to free a god's pet from some sicko who liked to torment people, then possibly killing the god who had kidnapped her sister would qualify as far from normal in just about anybody's eyes.

“The Immortal and the Slayer, Buffy Summers.” She looked up when a dry, British voice pronounced her name, half-expecting to see Giles shaking his head in disapproval at her dress or polishing his eyeglasses. Instead, she saw a pair of light blue eyes and an arched eyebrow that seemed eerily familiar.

“Wesley?” But there was no time to think about the newly rediscovered acquaintance, because a voice right out of her nightmares interrupted.

“Well, well, if it isn't little Buff.” She turned to see brown eyes and a malicious smirk, then took an instinctive step back and bumped right into Adam. His hands came up to her arms to steady her and he returned Angelus' nod. “Guess I should be surprised that the two of you decided to come to my party, but I can't say I am. Hope you're enjoying yourselves, though - I know I am.”

He was seated in a large chair, lounging in it like a king on his throne, every bit the master of all he surveyed, and if the utter lack of light in his eyes hadn't convinced her, the casual power he wielded so easily now would've told her everything she needed to know about his soulless state. Wesley stood at his right hand, more rugged and yeah, a helluva lot more sexy, than she'd ever thought he could be, but his eyes, too, were utterly cold. The black man on the left seemed to have a little more humanity to him, or at least as much as any human who willingly stood next to Angelus could have.

“H-how?” she asked unsteadily, her mind racing. She'd been afraid of this ever since Illyria mentioned Wolfram & Hart, but when they'd tried the resouling spell at the hotel, there had been no soul to retrieve. And now to see him like this... In the space of a moment, the floor had dropped out from under her and she was back in her dream. She looked down at her hand, half-expecting to find a bloody stake clutched in it, but only her evening clutch was there. Her heart thundered in her ears and she struggled to speak past it. “What happened? We tried... but it didn't work, so I thought -”

A throaty laugh answered her as a hand slipped around the back of the chair to caress Angelus' chest. A dark-haired woman leaned over his shoulder, glancing up at the Slayer through half-lidded eyes that spoke of nights wrapped in evil's embrace. She looked a little like Faith, if the whole skanky vibe were replaced with a classic elegance that obviously cost thousands to maintain. “So this is the Slayer. She really isn't that bright, is she?” she purred, rubbing her cheek against the vampire's jaw.

“Never said her brains were her selling point,” he pointed out. “Kinda like the boy here, actually.” He tugged on the leather lead he held in one hand and something moved at his feet. A flash of skin caught her eyes and she looked down to see the huddled form of a man cowering at Angelus' feet. The pet! How could they not have thought that he might have the pet with him? Buffy was busy kicking herself when Angelus yanked on the leash again and the pet rose up and turned to look at her. A harsh swath of black leather covered the lower half of his face, but above that -

“Spike?” she whispered. Adam, Angelus, the party, the entire rescue mission was completely forgotten when she saw those blue eyes. He was back! She didn't know how or really care, just needed to touch him, had to feel the proof of the miracle for herself. She started to move towards him, but Adam's hands tightened, the bruising grip yanking her out of her celebration.

Angelus laughed. “Jesus Christ, you really are dense, aren't you?” He slid one hand into the brightly bleached curls, pulling Spike's head further back. Spike shifted, sliding up into a more formal kneel at his master's urging. The mask he work kept him silent, but he didn't seem to fight it, instead appeared content to simply follow Angelus' lead. “C'mon, Buff, even you can't miss it.”

She forced herself to calm down, shoved the joy and desperate need to touch back down, and really _looked_ at Spike. He stared back up at her, and she realized what was missing. There was no love or devotion in his eyes, nothing except blank, dead space, as though everything that made him Spike had been somehow sucked out of him. Buffy swallowed hard, fighting back the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of what he must have endured at Angelus' hands.

“What did you do?” she asked, never taking her gaze away from the creature that looked so much like her dead lover.

“There you go!” he crowed. “I figured you'd catch on sooner or later.” Angelus stroked his slave's hair, fingers sliding easily through the locks, handling him as casually and possessively as a man might a particular show dog. “He's really much better this way, isn't he?”

Adam's hands tightened to the point of real pain. “He wants to see you hurt over this,” he murmured softly. “Are you going to let him watch you grieve all over again?”

“Why shouldn't we?” Wesley's cool voice demanded. “She is, after all, the reason some of us lost those things which were dearest to us.”

Angelus glanced at the Englishman, then caught hold of the woman's hand, drawing it slowly from his shirt. “Lilah, baby, I think Wes could use a little attention. Why don't you see if you can cheer him up, hmmm?” He kissed her palm and swatted her rear as she slunk past to curl around Wesley, nuzzling him in much the same way she had Angelus.

“Wow, gotta say, your taste in skanks is still pretty much the same,” Buffy muttered.

The vampire shrugged. “What can I say? You gave me a taste for them.” He waved his hand, dismissing the pair and turned back to Buffy. “So... must sting to see him like this, huh? Him being 'in your heart' and all.”

She briefly considered trying to lie, but knew he'd see through it far too easily. There was only one thing to do now, and that was play whatever game he'd concocted for them. “Just... tell me what happened?”

“That's right, he never told you he was back, did he?” Angelus clucked his tongue. “Really not very nice of him, trying to move on like that. But then, you were too busy screwing Immortal Boy here to care, weren't you? Gotta say, the look on his face when Andrew told him about that... priceless, I tell ya.”

“A-Andrew? What does he have to do with any of this?” God, don't let him be in on it. She'd really hate to have to kill him, even if he was an annoying pest that was always underfoot.

So Angelus told her, from start to finish. Buffy forced herself to sip the champagne that was offered, somehow managing to appear unconcerned as she heard the tale of how Spike appeared out of the amulet as a ghost, how he became flesh but decided to stay in LA rather than go to her, primarily because of the girl in the science lab, Angelus said. The same girl that later was possessed by Illyria, who made Spike her very willing pet. He told her about the takeover of the Black Thorn, and while she could hardly believe that the Spike she had known would help Angelus gain that kind of power, the vampire assured her that he'd known all about the soul, had agreed that removing it was the right thing to do. And afterwards, when he'd been abandoned by the god whom he served, Angelus had stepped in and cared for him, allowed him to kneel beside him after Spike begged for a Master's firm hand to guide and discipline him.

She felt sick. “Why didn't you - we would have -”

“I offered, believe it or not.” He shrugged. “Spike said he couldn't trust you to give him what he needed. He seemed to think you'd think he was sick for wanting it.”

God, had he really thought that of her? Buffy had to admit, if only to herself, that she might well have reacted like that if he'd asked for it back when they were in Sunnydale, but she'd changed since then. Adam had opened her eyes to the child she'd been back then, taken her with him to clubs where love took on darker forms but was nevertheless still the strong, tender emotion she knew Spike had once given her. Why hadn't he at least given her the chance? She would've given him anything he wanted, just to have him back beside her again.

Angelus studied her stricken face, smiling slowly as he recognized the knowledge that had replaced her innocence. Somehow he doubted that all of it had come from The Immortal, and he briefly wished Spike wasn't so thoroughly broken, if only so he could get the whole story of what had gone on between the two of them. But maybe dear little Buffy could give him a glimpse of it. Doing his best to look like he actually cared, he asked, “Didn't you... I mean, he mentioned something about when the two of you were -”

“Yeah. But not like that, the way it should be.” She drew in a shaky breath, then looked back at Adam and nodded. He studied her for a minute, then squeezed her arms gently and released her. “It was mostly just me hitting him cause I could.”

“Well, it's a start. And really, he needs somebody who can give him more time than I've got.” Angelus snapped his fingers in front of him, and Spike crawled to where he pointed, then knelt up again. “Think you could handle him, Buff?”

It was a trap. It had to be. The only problem was that she didn't know exactly what he was trying to trick her into. Holding her head high, Buffy nodded. “I never had a problem with him before,” she lied, hoping to God that she wasn't playing right into his hands.

Angelus gestured at the kneeling slave. “Show me, then.” When she gave him a blank look, he sighed. “Hit him. Hard.” She started to argue and he held a hand up to cut her off. “He's a demon, and we like some real pain, not the play stuff that humans usually do. I'd need to know that you can do that for him. Of course, if you'd prefer a whip, I can have one -”

“No! I mean, that's fine. I can do plenty of damage with just my hands,” she assured him. Adam reached up to take her arms again, but Buffy stepped away from him before he could. _I can do this_ , she told herself. _It's Spike, and he wants it. I love him and I can do this for him._ She took another step until she was standing directly in front of him. Without giving herself a chance to back down, she raised her hand and backhanded him, the blow snapping his head around as he toppled to the floor at the foot of Angelus' chair, landing in an ungainly sprawl that slashed at her heart like a knife.

An instant later, a voice rang out and light blazed across her vision, blinding her as the world around them went white.


	11. Chapter 11

_“Arrete!”_

The light swept through the room in a blinding flash, and everything in it stilled. Willow stared wide-eyed at the frozen tableau from her spot just inside the main door. “Okay, so maybe I overreacted a little,” she admitted sheepishly.

“You moved with swift action that was needed,” Illyria responded. “We are here for a purpose, and this assembly is impeding our progress towards that purpose.”

The god began to walk down the stairs, with Willow trailing slowly behind her. “Yeah, I guess so. I just... we were there and then -”

“You care for the half-breed.” Illyria strode across the room to where Angelus, the Slayer and The Immortal all looked down at the vampire on the floor.

Willow hurried to keep up. “Well, he's one of us, y'know? I mean, he saved the world and all, and okay, he hasn't exactly been a saint, what with the whole vampire thing, and the bottle in face incident, but he did say that about the fuzzy pink sweater and then he took care of Dawn when Buffy was... gone, and Tara always kinda liked him, so he wasn't exactly evil on an Angelus level and okay, shutting up now.”

Amusement glimmered in the icy blue eyes as the witch's rambling explanation wound down. “I would study this speech of yours that seems to require so little oxygen.”

“Huh? You mean the babbling?”

“But later, when we are away from this place and my pet is safe once more.” Illyria nodded at the fallen vampire. “Wake him, witch.”

“I have a name,” she muttered, but reached out to touch Spike just the same. A low word and he started out of the frozen trance, staring fearfully up at the redhead above him. “Hey, it's okay,” she said, stroking his arm softly, fighting back tears at the fear in the eyes that looked up at her. “You're safe now. We're here to -”

“He understands none of this,” the cold voice stated. And there certainly was no sign of the snarky vampire that Willow used to know in the cowering figure before them. She reached out to take his hand, but he shrank back with a soft whine.

Illyria stalked over and leaned down, a heavily gloved hand stretching over Willow's shoulder to seize the leather lead that was clipped to Spike's heavy black collar. “Come,” she ordered, giving it a sharp tug.

“You can't talk to him like that, like he's some kind of animal!” But the protest was futile, as Illyria yanked on the leash and repeated her order, and this time, Spike moved.

He eased out of his crouch onto all fours, then began to crawl around Willow towards Illyria. She turned and began to lead him toward the stairs, and he followed, although he looked back at the figure in the chair more than once. Each time he paused, Illyria snapped her fingers and tugged on the leash, and like a well-trained puppy, Spike obeyed.

Willow looked up at Buffy, for a moment not recognizing her friend in the elegantly gowned, hard-eyed woman who stood so confidently beside her lover. She shook her head and got up, glancing nervously at the lounging figure of Angelus before she, too, hurried after the god and her reclaimed pet. Somehow the evening had gotten turned upside down, and the sooner they got away from Wolfram & Hart, the better.

Illyria had shoved Spike into the car they had waiting, and Willow quickly released the driver from her spell, then got into the backseat on the other side of the vampire. They made their way easily through the frozen city, and she wondered exactly how far out her spell extended. Was it a bubble around them that they carried with them, or had it spread in a circle until it dissipated? She'd have to ask Rowena, she decided - if anyone would know, the coven leader was sure to have the answer.

Willow didn't realize right away that they were heading in the wrong direction. The plan had been to slip in, get the imprisoned pet, and go back to the hotel to meet Buffy and The Immortal, but the car sped right by the exit for the hotel, and Illyria said nothing. Turning to look at her, Willow asked, “Shouldn't we tell him to turn around?”

“We cannot take him where any will know of his location,” Illyria replied. “The vampire is not likely to take his disappearance lightly, and may well try to compel the Slayer to reveal what information she has.”

The redhead frowned. “Buffy wouldn't tell him anything, though,” she argued. But she couldn't help remembering Buffy's face as she'd stood over Spike, how cold her eyes had seemed, almost like that year... and she'd hit him, then, too. “S-so where do we take him?”

“I have not yet decided, but we will leave this city immediately.” The car pulled into the airport and Illyria reached for the door handle, but Willow's hand shot out to cover hers.

“Wait! What about... I mean, you and Spike aren't exactly, uh, you're kinda noticeable, y'know?” A blank look answered her and she gestured at them. “If we're trying to keep Angelus from tracking us, someone with blue hair walking through the airport with a naked guy wearing a collar and... whatever that thing is,” she gestured at the black mask he wore, “isn't something people are gonna forget.”

“It is a muzzle,” Illyria replied almost absently. She thought for a moment, then nodded. “You will make our arrangements.” She looked down briefly, and when she raised her eyes back to Willow's, brown had replaced blue. The sight of her lost friend struck the witch and she swallowed hard, then nodded.

“Yeah, I guess that works. I'll, uh, I'll go get the tickets.” Sliding out of the car, she hurried inside to the counter and went to stand before an agent. Taking a shaky breath, she whispered the word that would revoke her spell, and smiled at the confused man. “So... you were checking on that flight to England for me?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a sense of calm descend. Giles and Rowena would know what to do, and the coven could certainly help hide Spike from whatever resources Angelus might try to use to find him.

“Right. Sorry, guess I spaced out for a second.” He gave her a sheepish grin, then began to type, fingers clicking rapidly on the keyboard. “I can get you out on the red-eye to New York, with a stopover in Chicago, then out from there. You did say you wanted London, right?”

“Southampton, actually. My brother prefers to avoid all the crowds in London, if we can.”

He nodded. “Certainly.” A few keystrokes, and the tickets were printing out. He handed them over to her, and as she took them, Willow brushed her fingers against his and whispered, “Forget.”

The blank look that crept over his face sent a pang of guilt sliding through her, but she reminded herself that this was necessary. They had to leave no trace of themselves, no trail that could be followed. She thought about Spike - naked, collared, muzzled and leashed like an animal, struck to the floor for the amusement of Angelus and the Slayer, and knew that Rowena wouldn't have a problem with her using whatever magic they could to keep him safe. And when she returned to the car, she was ready.

She wasn't prepared to find Spike slumped into an unconscious heap on the floorboard. “What happened?”

“It is necessary to subdue him for the journey,” Illyria explained. It was disconcerting to see someone who looked so much Fred speak so matter-of-factly about knocking someone out. “He has been trained as the vampire's slave, and will begin to struggle once he realizes that he is being removed from his master.”

Willow flinched at the word, but nodded anyway. She put her hand on Spike's head and concentrated for a second, and when she pulled back, both of their appearances had changed. Each had long, straight black hair, their usually pale complexions darkened to a golden-brown until they were as unlike themselves as they could possibly be. She briefly considered trying to magically sedate him, but wasn't so sure she really wanted to see what his mind was like after being Angelus' slave for so long. She'd just have to hope they weren't stopped too often. “Okay, then, let's go.”


	12. Chapter 12

She slept deeply, waking calmly from dreams that she didn't recall feeling more refreshed than she could remember feeling in a long, long time. Dawn stretched lazily, enjoying the peace that came with sleeping late before she remembered what had happened and where she was. She shot up in the bed, eyes flying open, looking wildly around the room, but there was no sign of anyone nearby.

“Uh, hello?” she called out tentatively. When nobody answered, she shoved the blanket that had been covering her aside and got to her feet. Slightly unsteady on her feet, the girl wondered how long she'd slept as she made her way into the bathroom. Once the usual morning routine of toilet, shower and teeth had been tended to after the pleasant discovery of new shampoo, soap, and toothbrush, she emerged feeling decidedly more human. New clothes were hanging in the closet, and while they were a little more Leather Queen of Darkness than she would've preferred, they were definitely better than having to put dirty clothes back on.

Deciding not to even bother trying to call room service, she rummaged through the mini fridge instead, pleased to find that it had been stocked with enough food to keep her quite well fed for several days. She pulled a package of beef hot dogs out and tore it open, sliding one out to nibble on. Buffy always nagged her when she ate them cold, saying it was disgusting and unhealthy, but Dawn liked them like that. And since she was here alone, she figured she might as well eat the way she wanted to.

After she'd eaten three hot dogs, she sealed the package back up and put it in the fridge, washed her hands, and checked the time. Only two hours had gone by since she'd gotten up, and from the stuff that had been said, she doubted she'd be getting out of here anytime soon. With a sigh, she sat down on the bed and reached for the remote control. There really wasn't anything good on unless you liked talk shows with girls pulling each other's hair out over some skeevy guy or game shows with people in stupid costumes jumping up and down, but eventually Passions came on, and she settled down to watch it.

As always, the show brought back memories of her mother and the days she used to stay home sick from school. Mom always set her up on the couch with tons of pillows and blankets that she called her 'nest', then spent most of the day fussing over her, making cinnamon toast and tea with honey in it. They'd play gin if she felt up to it, and Mom would braid her hair while Passions was on. She'd always known just how to fix it, too - not tight enough to make her head hurt, but not so loose that it fell out right away, either.

And after Mom was gone and she was left alone... there had been Spike. He'd usually managed to be there when she got home from summer school, and more often than not, Passions had been on. She'd put her bag down and go sit on the couch with him, listen to him snark at the TV and talk about how much better the show had been when they'd actually bothered to write decent dialogue, and she wasn't that poor little lost girl with no family, even if it was only for the hour that the show was on. When he was having a good day, he'd even paint her fingernails while they watched and help her with her homework afterwards.

Several days were spent in pretty much the same fashion - sleeping late, nibbling on something from the fridge, watching TV, and waiting less and less patiently for somebody to come let her out of the room. She'd taken several long baths in the large tub, performed a few food experiments that reminded her of why she should never, ever try food experiments, and read the romance novels she found in the nightstand. They were what her mother would've called 'formula books' and what Spike would've referred to disdainfully as 'utter tripe not worth the paper they're printed on', but they were better than memorizing the Gideon Bible, which she figured was the next step.

On the fourth - or was it the fifth? - day, she started actively looking for a way out. The door refused to turn when she tried it, and screaming only left her with an aching head and ringing ears, so she turned to ransacking the room. Sometime after dark, she came across the canvas travel bag in a corner of the closet - the heavy, dull green fabric and worn edges practically screamed Army store, and she wondered why a god would be carrying something like it around. But it was a novelty, so she lugged it out and started going through the outside pockets, finding cigarettes, lighter, bourbon, playing cards, and enough first aid stuff to buy out a drugstore, none of it really that interesting. “Honestly, you'd think a god would have something at least a little unusual,” she muttered, setting the cards aside before shoving everything back into place.

The cards allowed her to at least play solitaire, with a couple of rounds of 52-pickup when she got too bored even for that. She practiced a few of the tricks Spike had tried to teach her when they played rummy, but she still wasn't able to palm the card she wanted without scattering half the deck. After the cards lost their charm, she tossed them aside and reached for the bag again. Two more novels were inside, along with a tattered notebook that looked like it was about to fall apart at any minute. She laid them all aside for further investigation, and delved deeper, digging out and discarding the black clothes that were beneath them. There had to be something good in here, she just knew it, and Dawn wasn't about to quit until she'd found it!

Her fingers brushed against something hard and cold - a weapon, maybe? Her eyes lighting up, the girl upended the bag, dumping its remaining contents out onto the bed. Something large and heavy fell out, but it was the glint of silver that caught her attention. She reached out for it, then stopped cold when she realized what it was laying on. Black leather. A long black leather trenchcoat, actually.

 _It doesn't mean anything_ , she told herself. _There are lots of black leather coats in the world, and Miss Goth Goddess is bound to have one, right?_ But still her hands shook as she picked it up, shaking it out until she could lay it across her lap. Forcing herself to stay calm, she started examining the leather. There was no pink smudge on the right sleeve where she'd smacked him and smeared her fresh nail polish, no gash on the shoulder from the Ghora demon that he'd fought to get the egg for her spell to bring her mother back. Instead of the thousand marks and repaired holes, there was just smooth, unbroken leather. So it wasn't Spike's, couldn't be his coat. Besides, he'd worn it into the battle when they went down into the Hellmouth, the one he'd never come back from.

Dawn sighed and raised the coat, sniffing the leather carefully. The smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol mingled with the faint aroma of ashes and earth, so familiar that she had to blink back tears. She knew that scent, had fallen asleep with it wrapped around her more times than she could count during that awful summer when they'd both been so lost. She didn't want to know how it was that the god who'd taken her captive had come across a coat that both looked and smelled like Spike's, but she knew one thing: it wasn't leaving her hands now that she'd found it.

Not until she could give it to her sister, anyway. Buffy tried to act like she was okay, and while Dawn knew she was doing better than she had been, she also knew that the Slayer wasn't nearly as fine as she pretended to be. She still watched blond men with a certain wistful gleam in her eyes, still whirled around to look when she heard a low voice with an English accent, and there was no way she could ever convince Dawn that the reason she liked to go to the clubs didn't have anything to do with the fact that everybody in Rome smoked. She figured if anybody deserved this coat, it was Buffy. But for right now, it was hers.

The girl stood up, pulling the coat over her shoulders to wrap herself in the leather that smelled so much like Spike. She slid her arms into the sleeves, more than a little surprised at how heavy it was, so different from the lighter jackets she was used to. Slipping her hands into the pockets, she started in surprise when her fingers brushed against something soft that wrapped around them. With a frown, she pulled it free, staring at the cloth for a second before she flung it to the ground. “Ewwww, Spike, that's disgusting!”

But if she'd been looking for proof that this was Spike's coat, she knew that she'd just found it, regardless of the smudges and gashes that weren't there. After all, there was only one vampire she could think of that would carry around a pair of her sister's underwear in his pocket. Making a face, she kicked the discarded fabric aside and muttered, “God, you are in _so_ much trouble when you get back, cause I'm totally telling Buffy you stole her panties.”


	13. Chapter 13

“What the hell?!? Where is he?” Angelus's roar made everybody start as it broke the silence that had descended over the ballroom. Buffy barely had time to look up at him before he was on her, hands seizing her arms, jerking her up off the floor. Golden eyes glowered at her as he shook her like a rag doll. “You've done something, had that witch of yours cast a spell or something. What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing!” She forced out. Angelus growled and shoved her down, and that's when she noticed - Spike was gone. He'd been on the floor, had been knocked there - by her - and she shivered as she remembered the blue eyes that were staring up at her before he just... vanished. “What - where did he go?”

Demons of every type were scurrying all over the ballroom in response to Angelus's shouted instructions. Wesley crouched down beside Buffy and studied her for a second. “A very good question indeed, Miss Summers. One that we're sure you'll be able to help us figure out.” His lips were moving as he reached for her, and she could feel herself starting to slip into darkness when a voice rang out, “Don't touch her!”

Metal whistled down just in front of her, and the darkness receded enough to allow her to see Adam standing above her holding... a sword? Where had he gotten a sword? And why was Wesley backing away and looking at him with such hatred? She shook her head, trying to clear some of the muddled feeling when Adam reached down and helped her to her feet. “Buffy, get to the car. I'll be right behind you.”

“But Spike -” She couldn't just leave him there!

“Will be fine, wherever he is.” He shot Angelus a hard look. “And we'll be leaving with no further threat, isn't that right, Angelus?”

His eyes narrowed. “As soon as I get my boy back, everybody's free to go. But until then, nobody goes anywhere.”

Methos stepped forward, raising his sword to the level of the vampire's heart. “Seeing that we had nothing to do with his disappearance, I'm sure you'll be very understanding when I say that we'll be leaving for the airport right away. We've got a plane to catch, and I hate to keep my staff waiting.”

Despite the growl rumbling in his throat, Angelus slowly nodded. “A wise decision,” Methos told him, lips curling up in a half smile. He lowered his sword to his side and turned to offer Buffy his arm. “If you get the chance, run,” he told her softly. “Don't look back, no matter what.”

“He's not gonna let us go,” she whispered. “Do you think that Will -”

“Hush! We'll talk later.” But it was too late. An angry cry rang out from the dais and he swore under his breath. “Move!” he ordered her, bringing his sword up as he whirled around to face the enraged vampire. A hard punch made him stumble and his sword fell from his hand, the blade kicked halfway across the room before he had a chance to grab for it.

“Nobody leaves!” Angelus ordered, kicking the downed immortal in the stomach. He took a particular satisfaction in the pained grunt it elicited. He drew his foot back to kick him again when a sudden rush tackled him to the floor and a small fist slammed into his face. “You know, if you were that eager to get my attention, all you had to do was ask,” he spat out.

“Yeah, but this way is just so much quicker,” Buffy retorted, quickly rolling aside when he tried to hit her. “And it involves me getting to hit you, so... bonus!” She scrambled to her feet amid the sound of tearing fabric, falling into a fighting stance as she waited for the vampire's next move.

Gunn had started towards Angelus, but he waved him off. “Watch Wes's back.” The wizard had raised his hands, chanting steadily in a rhythm that kept most of the room immobile. With a nod, he moved to do as directed, taking up a position nearby to take down any threat to his friend.

A quick jab brought Angelus's attention back to the small girl in front of him. “C'mon, Buffy, you know I don't have eyes for anybody but you.” He backhanded her, then grabbed her hair, yanking several of the bobby pins that held her hairstyle in place as he tossed her across the floor.

“And here I thought you'd moved on and gotten over me,” she quipped, lashing out with her foot. She connected solidly with his knee and when he grunted in pain, she smiled up at him. “Guess I'm just too special to forget, huh?”

He laughed. “Not really. Although you could say I found a pretty good substitute. Kinda small, unnaturally blond, and lemme tell ya, he could give you a few lessons on how to really satisfy a man.”

A fist shot up to smack him in the jaw, a full tackle following as she went after him with everything she had, the mention of Spike making her see red. How dare he taunt her with what he'd done? She'd make him bleed for every single bruise she'd seen on her vampire! They traded blows back and forth until finally Buffy pinned him down just a few feet from her discarded evening bag. And if he knew the Slayer, there was probably a small arsenal in there. He turned his head to bite her arm, but she screeched and jerked back, releasing him before he could.

Lilah grabbed hold of the blonde's hair and yanked again, hard enough to pull her completely off of Angelus. “Let go of him, bitch!”

Jumping up, the Slayer glared at her. “Yeah, you're one to talk, skank! At least I'm not sleeping with the Evil Dead!”

“Only because he wouldn't touch you with another vampire's dick! You know, the one that you _did_ fuck who didn't bother coming for you when he got back?”

Buffy gasped and kicked the other woman in the shins. Lilah grabbed her as she fell, pulling her to the floor with her. They rolled back and forth across the elegant expanse of the ballroom in a flurry of evening wear, kicking, clawing, and pulling hair in a full out catfight.

Angelus watched, his eyes shining as he followed every slap and scratch. “God, I love a good chick fight!” The battling women claimed his full attention, leaving him oblivious to Methos as the immortal crawled slowly across the floor towards his sword

Somehow, Lilah came out on top. She gained the upper hand, her hands wrapped around the Slayer's throat, squeezing slowly as the girl struggled for air and attempted to get a hold on her in return. “I'm gonna like telling Spike about this when I get to fuck him again,” she purred into Buffy's ear.

Methos didn't hesitate. His sword sliced easily through her neck, the tip missing Buffy's hands by inches. He didn't have time to notice, though, because as Lilah's body crumpled to the ground beside the Slayer, he felt the charge in the air, the gathering of power that meant only one thing. Methos took a step towards the still figure and the movement set it free.

The floor-length windows on either side of the ballroom shattered, sending glass flying through the room. One by one, the rest followed suit and the immortal was brought to his knees as the power flowed from the woman's body into his own. He screamed at the rush of pure darkness that far eclipsed his imagination of what killing the god would've been like. It was like no Quickening he'd ever known - better than the thickest fight, hotter than the wildest sex, lightning shooting through his veins until he almost begged the universe to make it stop. And just when he thought it would tear him apart, it receded and he was left dazed and drunk on the thrill of it.

Across the room, only Angelus's restraining hand kept Wesley from taking immediate vengeance for Lilah's death. The vampire looked over at the eyes that shone black with the life he'd taken and whispered, “Wait. Now's not the time.” He felt the human tense under his grip, but eventually he nodded, and Angelus ordered, “Let them go.”

Those that were still left standing moved aside as Methos got to his feet and took Buffy's hand. Leading the stunned Slayer towards the door, he paused when Angelus called out, “Just so you know... we're not done here. Not by a long shot.”

The immortal didn't respond, just continued on his way. Once he was gone, Wesley turned to Angelus, but the question he'd been meaning to ask was cut off by the vampire's upraised hand. “Go upstairs,” he instructed. “Strip and wait for me on the bed.” When he didn't move, a shove sent him stumbling towards the door. “Now, Wesley.”

“Hey man, that's cold,” Gunn objected, watching his friend walk numbly towards the door. “The guy just lost his -”

“And we're going to make sure they pay for it,” Angelus assured him. “Just like we're going to get my boy back and make whoever took him beg for death. But right now, Wesley needs something you can't give him.” He started after the human, already unbuckling his belt as he walked. “Unless _you'd_ like to fuck the sense out of him so he can forget what happened long enough to sleep tonight?”

Gunn's quick shake of the head made him laugh. “Well then, get to work,” he ordered. “I'll take care of Wes.”


	14. Chapter 14

Buffy didn't say a word on the drive back to the hotel. Methos kept casting apprehensive glances at her, but the blood-spattered, shocked Slayer remained silent. He managed to drape his jacket around her in an attempt to hide some of the more visible blood stains so they wouldn't draw the notice of the desk clerk as they walked through the lobby. As they stepped off the elevator, she said, “You'll come to my room after you get changed?”

He nodded. “We should talk.” It was a pretty lame understatement, but she didn't call him on it, just nodded and went into the her suite. Methos sighed and turned towards his room as well. Maybe a hot shower and change of clothes would help them both get a little perspective on the night.

An hour and a half later, he felt decidedly more human. He called down to have room service delivered up to her room, and met the cart out in the hall just before he knocked. She answered the door soon after, her hair still damp from the shower, her skin flushed and smelling sweetly of the soap she'd used. “I thought we could use a bite to eat,” he explained.

She nodded and turned to let him bring it in. “Come in,” she told him, the cool tones of her voice letting him know that while she might be acting quite calmly, she was actually still pretty upset.

Methos followed her inside, closing the door carefully behind him. “Okay, let's have it. You're not going to be happy and I know you won't eat until we've gotten this out of the way.”

He thought his request had been perfectly reasonable, but the look in her eyes when she whirled around told him she didn't agree. “Get it out of the way? Is that what this is to you, some kind of _game_ or something?” She was a lot closer than he'd like to admit, but he wasn't about to try explaining it, not with her still shooting daggers at him out of her eyes. “That was _Spike_ back there. _My Spike_ , and he was chained and kept like a... like some kind of animal for Angelus to play with!”

“I know. And you've got to know that Willow got him out of there. She'll probably -”

“No. No probably about it.” She shook her head. “I just... seeing him like that... God, and then I had to hit him! He's never gonna forgive me for that, not after I promised - we were done with hitting, you know?”

He pulled her into a comforting hug, rubbing her back slowly. “Shhh, it'll be okay. He'll understand why you did it, I'm sure he will. You were trying to get him away from there, and he won't hold that against you.”

A strangled sob escaped. “I just don't understand. How did he - what happened to him?”

Methos shook his head. “I don't know, but we'll find out. Duncan seemed sure that he was -” He realized his mistake too late and cut himself off just as her body went stiff in his arms.

“Duncan? Your friend?” Her voice was soft, but he could hear the rage vibrating in it. “What would he have to do with Spike being here with Angelus?”

“I - there was a rumor... and I wanted to find out -” He tried to explain, but a hard shove sent him stumbling backwards and cut him off.

“You wanted to FIND OUT? So... what? You heard that Spike was here and instead of telling me, when you _know_ how much I've missed him, you decided to ask your _friend_ to check it out?” She began to advance towards him, and he shook his head.

“No, it wasn't like that at all!” he protested. “I heard that the vampires were in a fight with Wolfram & Hart, and everybody died. When they mentioned that Angelus had been seen again, I asked Duncan -”

She snatched up a vase from the coffee table. “If you tell me you asked him to 'check it out' again, I'm gonna break this right over your head! And what do you mean 'vampires', huh? Were you ever gonna tell me anything at all about it?”

“Actually...”

“You weren't, were you? You were just gonna let me go on thinking he was dead! How long did you know about this?” When he stayed silent, she screamed, “How long?”

He sighed. “Almost a year.” She gasped and drew the vase back. Methos lunged at her, knocking it out of her hands before she could throw it. “Buffy... Buffy, listen to me. I didn't want - you were finally letting go, being happy, and I didn't want to take that away from you. When I heard about it, I was told they were both dead. And later, when Duncan talked to Angelus, he said that Spike had died in the final fight. I didn't see the point of hurting you needlessly by telling you that your vampire had come back but died again.”

She went still and he risked letting go of one of her hands long enough to help her sit up. “I just don't - so Angelus was telling the truth, then? Spike really didn't want me to know that he was back?” Tears shimmered in her eyes, clinging to her lashes before the first one fell. And with the first tear, a deluge was unleashed. Methos found himself cradling a sobbing Slayer while she drenched his shirt, gasping out, “He didn't believe me. He really didn't believe me.”

Stroking her hair, he hugged her close and whispered, “You'll make him believe you, _cara_. With a woman like you to take care of him, he'll get better and you'll show him how very much you do love him.” He knew the words could well prove to be useless platitudes, but they were what she needed to hear, the only thing that might be able to give her some peace of mind in the midst of the imbroglio she was caught up in, and the only thing he could offer her until she had her vampire back beside her.

Eventually, she cried herself out, and he eased her up onto the couch. Spreading a blanket over her sleeping form, Methos bent to kiss her cheek. “You'll have him back with you soon,” he promised, then went to pick up one of the room service trays and let himself out.


	15. Chapter 15

By the time they landed in Southampton, Willow was on the verge of collapse. She'd been holding up the glamour on both her and Spike for nearly a full day, and had lost track of the number of minds she'd touched, muddling details and erasing memories, from flight attendants to customs agents. Those had been the hardest, and she wondered if the US government wasn't doing something to make their soldiers a little more magic-resistant after what had happened with the Initiative. None of it was really hard, but like all spells, they required energy, and she could feel hers draining away, each little magical push nibbling a little further at the edges of her power until she was struggling to stay conscious.

Illyria had taken charge of Spike, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around his arm when they needed him conscious long enough to change planes, steering him through airports with firm commands, and knocking him quickly out once they were settled in one place. Now she took control of Willow as well, guiding them both outside and shoving them into the nearest car she found. When the driver tried to protest, saying he was off shift in a few minutes, she turned a cold look on him and stated, “You will take us where we wish to go.”

Willow wondered if the god didn't have some persuasive magic of her own, because the driver stared at her, then nodded and turned around. She gave directions to the coven, then sat back and leaned her head against the seat, giving in momentarily to the weariness that tugged at her. Just a little bit longer, a few miles more, and they'd be safe. Rowena would help them, advise and assist them in dealing with Spike - she had to, because Willow knew that she wasn't up to the task.

Another car was waiting at the coven's gate. The trio stumbled from one to the other, and as they started down the road to the manor house, both women let their glamours fall. It was a shock to see Fred's brown hair turn blue, her skin dappling with the god's coloring, but even more of one to watch Spike's starved, naked body emerge from the facade of the Native American warrior she'd pulled around him. Now that they were several thousand miles away from Angelus, she could allow herself to really look at him, to see the welts and cuts and bruises that covered him like some sort of macabre decoration. All those marks... “Oh my God,” she whispered, reaching out to touch one particularly nasty-looking gash on his arm.

“It is not his body you should concern yourself with,” Illyria said quietly. A shadow passed over her face, something that might have been called concern or grief if had been seen on a human. “This place you have taken us to... they have power?”

She nodded. “A-and they helped me when... when I needed it.” Illyria gave her a curious look, but Willow really didn't feel like telling her about Tara's death and what had come after it. Nightmares of bloody shirts and skinless corpses still woke her more often than she cared to admit to anyone but those few she trusted here at the coven. Buffy and the others all wanted so much to believe that she was cured, that she was the same Willow she'd been before it all happened, and Willow knew part of it was her own fault, because she'd let them. She just couldn't bear to tell them the truth about all of it.

A tall, slender woman was waiting on the steps of the manor house as they pulled up, her silver hair wound in an elegant coronet atop her head. She held a hand out to them as they stepped from the car, greeting them with a gentle smile. “Welcome to Cloverdown. Willow, dear, you look done in. I've had your rooms made up, and I'm sure you all could do with some sleep and food. We'll talk in the morning, once everyone is refreshed. In the meantime, rest assured that you're safe here.”

As always, hearing Rowena's crisp tones and gentle words brought a sense of peace to her heart. Willow knew that whatever else might happen, Rowena would help them. She followed one of the younger students to the room that was set aside for her, not bothering to look over her shoulder at the others she knew were tending to Illyria and Spike. Maybe it was selfish, but after the last few days, she needed to be alone, needed to ground herself in her own space and try to forget about some of the things she'd seen, if only until morning.

Illyria watched the witch stumble off and turned to look at the priestess who stood on the steps. “You have power.”

“I do. And you are welcome here so long as you respect it, Old One.” Rowena inclined her head slightly towards the god. She'd barely believed it when Alice had come to her and told her of the dream she'd had that warned them of the trouble brewing in Los Angeles. An ancient god, a souled and now broken vampire, a Slayer, an immortal, a witch and Angelus... all would need to be addressed in their own time.

Illyria studied her for a second, then nodded. Two young girls came up to them, one gesturing to Illyria, the other to Spike. “My pet will remain with me,” she instructed the girl. Rowena's nod sent them both moving towards the house, where they paused at the doorway. Illyria took hold of Spike's lead and gave it a sharp tug. “Come,” she commanded, following the young guides. After a moment's hesitation, Spike began to move as well, climbing the stairs with slow, shuffling steps.

“Wait.” Rowena walked over to the vampire, who had stopped the instant the word was out of her mouth. She reached up to unbuckle the leather straps, then slowly eased the muzzle away from his face, her lips pressing together at the sight of pink lines that cut across his cheeks. “Come in,” she told him, then raised her hand to his temple. He swayed and would have fallen if Illyria had not turned back to grab him. “He will rest easier now,” she told the god, stepping aside to allow them to continue on their way.

The morning meeting Rowena had mentioned ended up being more of a late afternoon thing, as all three of the refugees slept until well after two o'clock. Willow had woken first, marveling at how rested she always felt when at the coven. After a long shower, she'd dressed and gone to the kitchen, not at all surprised to find Rowena already at the table with sandwiches and a pot of tea waiting. The priestess wasn't exactly a seer, but she seemed to have a knack for knowing what was needed when, all the same.

“You look much better,” she told Willow, as the young witch fixed herself a plate and poured a mug of tea.

“Well, it'd be pretty hard to feel worse,” she joked feebly. “I don't - it was a pretty rough trip, and I -”

“Had to use magic on people without their permission.” The quiet statement held no judgment, but Willow felt her cheeks flush all the same. She nodded, and Rowena reached out to lay a hand over hers. “You did what you had to, to protect an innocent who had been abused. The rules we follow are there for a reason, but sometimes it's important to know when and how to break them.”

She hadn't realized how much she needed the absolution until it was given. “Thanks.” Peace wrapped around them as they drank their tea, sitting quietly for several minutes.

Illyria's appearance sent some of the peace siding away, her presence reminding both women of why they were there. “My pet sleeps soundly,” she told Rowena. “But he cannot be kept in such a way forever.”

Willow frowned and looked at the priestess. “What way?”

“I put him under a light trance,” she explained. “It's important that we know all we can before we attempt any sort of treatment for him, and I didn't want him trying to harm himself in the meantime.”

“He will look for his master when he awakens,” Illyria told her. “And it is those he will view as standing in the way that he will try to hurt.” Both women stared at her for a second and she returned the level gaze. “I did not seek that my pet be as broken as Angelus obviously prefers him, but the mindless state of such a one is not foreign to me.”

Mindless. Willow flinched at hearing the vampire referred to like that, especially since if there was one thing Spike had always been, it was his own man. Or, demon, really, but still. He'd had no shortage of opinions about stuff that went on, and never hesitated to speak up when he wanted to share, usually at the moment that everyone else least wanted to hear it. Buffy said that he'd told the hard truths, and after the way things had gone down when he'd been working for ADAM, Willow had to agree. Was it really possible that this defeated, silent creature they'd rescued last night was the same snarky blond who'd been such a thorn in the Slayer's side?

"I think that Spike should remain here for the time being. We can protect him, hide from whatever magical means Angelus may use in his search, and hopefully, help him begin to heal." Rowena looked at Illyria. "You are welcome to stay with him if you like."

The god nodded. "I will remain." She turned and walked out of the room, leaving Willow and Rowena alone.

"Did… did you want me to stay, too?" Willow wasn't sure which answer she really wanted- on the one hand, the coven was safe, and here she didn't have to think about the way her friend had struck down the vampire she claimed to love and miss, but she also didn't know if she could be of any real assistance here. Spike would need the kind of psychic care and help that she had no talent for, and there was nothing to be gained by watching him suffer.

Rowena smiled. "Your place is out in the world, my dear. But you know that you're welcome to visit us at any time, and I'm sure Spike will be happy to see you when he's more himself."

"I dunno about that. Spike as himself is kinda a pain." She laughed softly. "But then, I was a pretty big pain when I came here too, wasn't I?"

"You were... challenging," Rowena agreed. "Although I've never regretted having you here."

Willow smiled. "Thanks. I think I needed to hear that right about now."

The older woman wrapped her up in a warm embrace and whispered, "You'll always have a place here waiting for you."

She nodded and let herself enjoy the peace that always seemed to flow from the priestess before pulling back and sighing. "Guess I'd better go call Buffy and let her know that everything's okay, huh?"

"There is something still to be done that I would ask of you, witch." Illyria strode back into the room, her eyes intent upon the redhead. She handed her a card that was stamped with the name and address of a hotel in Rome. "The Key has yet to be returned to the Slayer, and I wish to remain with my pet."

Willow gaped at the keycard. "Dawn? You mean you grabbed her and then just left her there?"

"It was necessary to secure the cooperation of the Slayer. I could not be assured of her assistance in any other manner." She shrugged. "The room is well-provisioned and secured with a Triskelion Knot, so her safety and well-being is assured."

"A Triskelion Knot?"

"You know of this charm?"

Willow nodded. It was one of the more powerful containment spells she'd ever encountered, and while most practitioners took years to master it, the casual way that Illyria spoke of it told her it had been little more than a floating pencil for the god. "I've never used it, but I think-"

Illyria studied her for a second, then held out a white index card as well. "Speak the words with confidence, and the elements will obey you." The little motivational speech sounded so odd coming from the blue-haired figure, but Willow bit her lip and nodded, tucking the cards into her pocket before she headed for the phone.

“Willow?” Rowena's voice made her turn before she got out the door. “I don't think I have to tell you that the fewer people know of his whereabouts, the easier it'll be to see to Spike's safety.”

She thought back to the hard look on Buffy's face and the clenched fist that had struck the vampire down. "I know.”

The priestess nodded. “Go make your call, then.”


End file.
